


Real Men Wear Tights

by Bananaramses, SergeantMeow



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Illustrated, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 153,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bananaramses/pseuds/Bananaramses, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SergeantMeow/pseuds/SergeantMeow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school can be tough for everyone. This is especially true when you're hiding a secret that can never be told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back to School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an AU. If you are expecting characters that are exactly like their canon counterparts, this is not for you. The characters, _especially_ John, have grown up under wildly differing circumstances than in canon. In John's case, those changes occurred during his birth. Because of that, he has grown and developed with different factors and stresses affecting his life. As a result, his personality is quite different from what it is in canon. Any AU worth its salt that enacts such changes at such a young age should take the resulting consequences into consideration. So while RMWT John's essence may be the same as in canon, he is altogether a more mature, thoughtful, and socially anxious person. You have been forewarned.
> 
> Enjoy!

  


  


The first day of school had always made John more nervous than it should have. It was therefore no surprise that when the blare of an alarm set an hour before necessary sounded throughout his bedroom, John shot out of his bed with a start. He figured he'd need the extra time to accomplish what had become an unfamiliar routine thanks to long summer months going without one.

His first stop was made in the bathroom. The person who greeted him in his mirror had a rather severe case of bedhead, black locks sweeping wildly in what he would soon discover to be unmanageable cowlicks. He washed his face, carefully checking for any sign that stubble was growing in, only to be slightly disappointed that his face still remained smooth. As he toweled off, he noticed that something was a bit odd about his appearance in the mirror. It took him a few moments, before he realized that he wasn't wearing his glasses.

  


Leaving the bathroom only to retrieve them from his nightstand, John returned to examine his completed look. The glasses seemed to weigh heavily on the bridge of his nose, but they did help to cover the uncertainty clouding his eyes. The face that gazed back at him did seem to be in some semblance of order, so he spent the next few minutes staring at himself and trying on different smiles, insisting to his reflection that everything was going to be just fine, and that he didn't have anything to worry about. There was never reason to worry, really; he hadn't had any problems during any of the previous three years since he'd stopped home schooling and started attending public school, and he had no reason to believe that things would be any different this time around. All he had to do was follow his Dad’s advice and he would be fine.

Going back to his room and opening the topmost shelf of his dresser, John set about trying to pick out his first day ensemble, picking up and tossing rejected clothing onto his bed. After a few minutes of this, he was a bit frustrated; he couldn’t seem to get his clothes right regardless of how many shirts he pulled out from his dresser to try on. The pursuit to find something suitable ended as his eyes settled on a pile of discarded themed t-shirts and button-downs sitting on his mattress. Deciding he might as well go with comfort rather than an attempt at style, he started sifting through the pile. A plain shirt was nearly impossible to find amidst the mound of ones sporting heroes' emblems across their fronts, so, donning a shirt at semi-random and now showing his full support for Captain America, John made his way downstairs.

Breakfast was cooking when he got there, the smell of bacon and the sizzling of eggs immediately drawing him into the kitchen. He took a seat in front of a sizable stack of pancakes, a sight that he wasn’t exactly surprised to see; his dad had a tendency to go a bit overboard when it came to what he deemed special occasions, after all. After a quick greeting and an encouraging “dig in,” John set to work on tackling the first wave of food. It was an easy enough task for someone regarded as a bottomless pit to accomplish. Those pancakes fell in a matter of minutes. For his efforts, he earned a chuckle and a question of whether he had even bothered to chew.

His legs bounced under the table as he waited, restless to move with pent up energy. As much as he appreciated the break, his body wasn’t used to forgoing his normal routine. Tomorrow, he’d begin to fall back into the swing of things on his own and, before long, sports would be there to occupy his mornings. He looked forward to early practices at the pool before classes, having missed the feeling of gliding through the still waters and the sharp smell of chlorine during the summer. There had only been a handful of occasions where he made it out to a public pool, and that just really wasn’t the same.

A plate piled with eggs, hash browns, and bacon was placed before him, grabbing his attention immediately. Though considerably less hungry than before, his appetite once again proved to work in mysterious ways as he got to work devouring everything in sight, the eggs and hash browns disappearing in no time flat while the bacon was savored slowly. Once he was finished with his meal, the two Egbert men switched places in the kitchen, John going to work on cleaning his dishes while his dad performed his own rather impressive disappearing act on his own breakfast. And he wondered where John got it from.

When the kitchen was just about as spotless as he could make it, John returned upstairs to shrug on his backpack and make a last-ditch effort to convince his hair to behave itself. Defeated by the unruly cowlicks, he vowed to his reflection that though the battle may have been over, the war had only just begun. Aside from the hair, he was given a self pass to go to school and face his peers, so he hurried out of his bathroom. He jumped the stairs two at a time, not that there was any time strain, but he just didn’t like to keep his dad waiting for him. With keys already in hand and token white fedora fixed on top of his ever-neat head of hair, his dad stood by the open door, the mild, crisp air of a pre-Autumn Seattle morning wafting inside and tickling John's senses.

“Ready for your first day, son?” The question was somewhat nostalgic, since it was the exact same phrase that Charles Egbert had repeated every year that John had gone to school. This year, the question carried a little more meaning than it had the prior, as last year had been a bit hard on him and now his dad couldn’t hide the note of concern in his voice. John was sure he would be fine this time around, however, because no longer was he a freshman facing the unknown world of high school. He was a sophomore, with a year's experience under his belt. With that experience, a group of people he more or less felt comfortable being with, and more certainty of who he was, everything would be okay.

“Yep! It’s just so weird, as usual. You know, you don’t have to drive me, dad. I’m not a little kid.” The attempt to be spared a minor humiliation was half-hearted at best, the conversation being something of a tradition between father and son. If he was being honest, John really didn’t mind that his dad still wanted to drop him off at school in the morning, or at least not as much as he said he did. His dad would smile the same way he had when John had first complained, back when he was twelve years old. “You know, a lot of kids my age are learning to drive.”

“Hm.” As he held out the door for his son, a rather smug smile played on his lips. His dad was obviously taking far too much pleasure in contemplating his reply. That look was a clear indicator that John was not going to like the answer, mostly because it would probably be true. “Well, son, if you find the time to get a job, you might be able to get yourself a car.” As he walked past, John attempted a glare that he hoped was just as scalding as he imagined it was in his head.

“I can’t, at least not until next summer. You know that just as well as I do.” The comfortable temperature of the morning played along John’s skin as he stretched en route to the pristine white car parked in the driveway, his eyes affixed to the clouds above. It would be a shame to pass up what would undoubtedly be a beautiful day in the confines of a building. He wouldn’t mind taking up part-time work that kept him outdoors, even on blistering days. Getting certified so he could be a swimming instructor or a lifeguard had always been on his to-do list, except it was unlikely that he'd ever really have the time. The fact that summer was now officially over just stuck a nail in that particular coffin.

“Then you’ll just have to let your old man drive you to school.”

Not for the first time, John thought of opting to walk the dozen blocks or so to the high school, even as he slipped into the passenger’s seat. On any other day, it would be nice to have some downtime to chat with his dad, even if it was only for a few short minutes, but the first day of school just meant he'd be subjected to too many concerned questions about too many unimportant things, such was the man's concern for his child. As expected, once the car was en route, the interrogation began. “Do you have your lunch?”

“Yeah.” John sighed, rolling down the window and letting the breeze roll in. Had he actually managed to wrangle his hair into any sort of order, his efforts were now in vain as his locks were swept up and tousled by the wind. “You made it and stuck it in my bag. Well, unless the thing taking up half of my bag isn’t lunch. It smelled like lunch, but I didn’t actually look. Wouldn’t be the first time you pulled a fast one on me.” He saw his father's amused grin out of the corner of his eye, but chose not to dwell on whether or not the man was just entertained at past memories or if John had a surprise waiting for him. It had been a few weeks since he had gotten a surprise cake to the face, which didn't exactly bode well. Periods of peace were often just preludes to large-scale attacks, after all.

“Your lunch is actually lunch this time,” he was assured, though John was not exactly liking the chuckle that followed. That was a plotting chuckle if he had ever heard one. He would have to keep his guard up, lest he take an excess of frosting to the face. The amusement didn't last long before his father's face returned to something more concerned. “Did you pack enough supplies?” Dad-mode was evidently operating at full capacity.

“It’s the first day. They pretty much expect us to not bring anything, socialize all day, and be whiny teenagers.” Not that he really was the type to do any of those things, except maybe the latter if the stress caught up to him. Sometimes it was hard to keep it all going. His dad had always emphasized the importance of having an education and, even if it was a challenge to juggle his life around it sometimes, John had to agree. “I think I have enough pens for everyone in my classes to mooch off of and still have a handful for myself.” He gave his bag a quick shake for good measure, prompting the cacophonous rattling of his pencil case.

“It’s better to be prepared.” John nodded, before once again affixing his attention outside. They were a block away from the school, passing steadily by a handful of punctual students who likely were excited to see their friends again. Catching sight of a few familiar faces, he wondered idly if any of his lunch chums from the previous year would still share their lunch block with him. He never could make any time for them outside of school, even during months where he was supposedly free. Maybe they would have no room for him in the coming year.

The car turned, traveling slower than necessary as it moved towards the front entrance of W.V. High. They came to a stop in front of the school, and John noted several faculty still ambling their way into the building, looking as unenthused to be there as many of the students. When he turned to look at his father, his stomach clenched in unease. Judging from the look of serious concern on the man's face, he knew what was coming next.

“John, you need to be careful.” Just like most of everything else that his dad always said on the first day of school, this was scripted, routine. This point in particular was the most important, however, the rest of the conversation having been simple pleasantries leading up to this. The man always worried when his son was out of reach, beyond where he could protect him, even if he was just a kid going to school. “Try not to stand out too much, and keep your nose down.”

“I know, dad.” They were idling in a no idling zone, his father taking the time to inspect John’s face as if trying to determine if he was simply agreeing to appease him. Seeming to be satisfied with what he saw, he rewarded John with a pat on the head for his good behaviour. Or that’s what it felt like to him, at least, even though he knew that his dad was just looking out for him.

“You’re growing up too fast; sometimes I wonder where my little boy went. I am very proud of you, son.” He held out an arm in an offer, smiling honestly. John leaned forward, trying to find reassurance rather than concerning himself with how many people had noticed them hugging it out. The hugs were given much more sparingly once John had started to steadily grow after childhood. The timing of this one was appreciated, however,even if it did hurt his reputation a little to be seen willingly hugging his parent in broad daylight.

“Yeah, yeah, so proud,” John laughed, feeling some of the weight of his anxiety slipping off his shoulders, even in the one-armed, quick, manly kind of hug that this was. Once they parted, he opened the car door, stepping outside and stretching again before turning around with what his dad called his "trademark" grin. “I’ll see you at dinner. Bye, dad.”

John hefted his backpack onto one shoulder after closing the door, feeling the smile set naturally as he looked at the familiar building. He didn't look back as his dad continued to idle, his thoughts shifting to settle on the task ahead of him. Though his feelings were mixed on the whole ordeal, he really did like school, for the most part. As he walked towards the main doors, he could still feel his dad's eyes on his back, waiting for him to make it safely inside the building. He probably had some proud fatherly grin on his face, John imagined, excited to see his "little" boy setting foot on the path towards yet another milestone in his education.

As he stepped inside, an involuntary sigh escaped his mouth as he was greeted with the sight of a hallway full of lockers and tired-looking teenagers milling about talking with each other. Seeing the various states that others were in, his resolve reaffirmed itself. He could do this again. He had done it all before. Though he was playing a role, it was a role that didn’t stray far from what he wanted to be: well-regarded by teachers and peers alike, the star of the swim team, and, above all, a nice guy. He was just John Egbert, and this was the beginning of his Sophomore year.

///

The day had been going better than John had expected, though he had been imagining some pretty bleak scenarios for a while. His first three classes of the day went by with little more than a summarization of the course, name introductions, and textbook distribution. The rest of the class time was given to the students to chat amongst themselves about their summers, ask their teachers questions, or just flip through the course material. Less prompted by other students, John spent his time reviewing the course and the breakdown of the grade. If one of his classmates turned to ask what he did for summer, he answered with volunteering in the city before turning the focus back on them. No one asked for details because no one really knew him well enough. He really had nothing to worry about.

Soon enough, it was time for his midday break. John appreciated the new weight of his Biology, Alternian, and Physics books as he went to his locker. When he switched the texts for his lunch and headed downstairs, John wasn’t entirely sure what to do about the break. Throughout most of the previous year he had sort of just floated between groups of people before he settled with either some members of the swim team or a handful of students that shared many of his AP classes with him. He didn’t really feel like playing musical chairs today, coming part way through the same conversations about summer, how it sucked for it to be over, and listening to speculations on the school year. He didn’t even want to scan the cafeteria to discover who was and who wasn’t in his lunch period, so he decided to put it off until the next day.

When he got downstairs he headed for the nearest exit, making a beeline for a large ash tree off to the side of the school’s side field. He was lucky to find the shade underneath deserted, groups seeming to favour sprawling out in the sun. Often, when he didn’t feel up to socializing or if he just had homework to complete, John would eat lunch under the tree. Being alone gave him time to think, not that he didn’t have plenty of time to himself, usually.

John settled his backpack down before leaning against the trunk. He sighed as he tilted his head back up to the branches. The sun seemed to make the leaves glitter as they swayed in a light breeze, the hints of a blue sky between the flickering flashes of light relaxing in their beauty. Slowly, John slid himself down to sitting, fingers brushing through the long grass at the base of the tree. It was quiet outside, save for the occasional burst of laughter or shout from nearby groups of teenagers. He liked it when things were pleasantly quiet.

After unzipping his backpack, John pulled out a sizable container and a much smaller brown paper bag. Even though his lunch had outgrown the traditional method of lunch transport a few years ago, his dad insisted on being totally old-school. There was a note written out in neat capital letters over the front of the bag in black sharpie:

**SON.  
I’M SO PROUD THAT YOU ARE CONTINUING TO EAT HEALTHY. YOU HAVE GROWN INTO SUCH A RESPONSIBLE YOUNG MAN. **

  


John rolled his eyes, making sure to do so extra hard when he noticed the little happy face at the end of the praise. At least his dad had abandoned the heart. The heart was just obscene levels of lame.

It was easy to keep his diet to only what his body needed when his dad insisted on making most of his meals. Besides the more than occasional baked good, the kitchen was usually kept free from anything with excess fats, oils, or sugars. Breakfast had been a treat and he was sure tomorrow he’d be back to the mostly egg-white omelets, high fiber oatmeal, and a lot of oils and powders that were supposed to be good for him. It wasn’t bad—after so long of eating a certain way, you got really used to it—but he sort of wanted to have greasy bacon more than once a year. Or at least more than once a year that his dad actually knew about and endorsed.

John retrieved a sandwich from the tupperware container, chewing a mouthful of turkey, lettuce, and whole wheat bread as he looked straight ahead to a gathering of students. They all seemed so carefree, playfully careening into each other while their laughs carried across the field. John smiled wistfully, wondering how nice it would be to have only small expectations for one’s future instead of heaping piles of it. What would it have been like if he hadn’t had his life planned out for him? School might even be something fun for him, instead of an obligation that was often tediously boring. He might even have people who he could call his friends, and even allow them to come over to his house because there would be no reason not to let them get that close.

A warm gust of air seemed to reach out to him, brushing his cheek with a gentle caress. John smiled lightly, wondering what places the wind could lead him to if he just got up and followed it. How far would he venture from school, from his life, if he just let the breeze lead each step? It blew in his ears, whistled through the air, and fluttered the leaves above him, all subtle motions and familiar sounds. As the wind died down, John found that his mood didn’t feel quite as melancholy as before. The grin didn’t fall from his lips as he continued with his lunch.

  


///

As John retrieved his books at the end of the day, he felt the last half of his school schedule would certainly prove to be full of ups and downs. With Math and English promising what would likely be a disgusting workload in the future, he knew he had his work cut out for him. He absently wondered if he would even have the time for the amount he had taken on. If everyday was a day off then the course load would be a piece of cake, but he knew that by tomorrow he’d be back to his regular routine. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried quite so hard, just to make it easier.

With a bit of stuffing and an unnerving ripping sound, John managed to zip up his backpack. He’d have to let his dad know that he needed a bigger one, as there were too many textbooks to lug around and not enough bag. John was glad he had decided to take something like Theater to break up what would be an otherwise nearly full workload. He didn’t know where he would cram another book if he had been in another academic class instead. It had taken a bit of persuasion to convince his dad of the benefits in having a class revolving around acting, however. Eventually the point had been made and John had been encouraged to have fun. Really, he was mostly looking forward to not having even more homework than he otherwise would.

John thought that probably the best part of his day was that it would be rounded off with Phys. Ed. By the time the day was drawing to a close and the bell signaled the final period, John may have been a bit too eager for it. He had packed his change of gym clothes and a lock, despite it being the first day. As he guessed, he was the only one to do so, which had prompted a couple of laughs from his classmates. John Egbert, ever eager to get to work and make the rest of them look bad. It kind of hurt that they took his readiness as a jab at them, but it couldn’t really be helped. So he laughed with them, stretching as they lazed around, insisting that he just really enjoyed Gym. He was also the only one who asked to run laps that day, while the rest of his peers were busy socializing. When the bell signaled the end of day, John returned from the track, his muscles happily stretched. Forgoing a shower in favour for heading home sooner, he quickly exchanged his clothes, retrieved his bag from his locker, and headed out of the school.

///

John set off on his trek home, following one road nearly the entire time. During summer, it was nice to walk or even jog the dozen blocks home. Under a vivid sky full of puffy white clouds, as the wind blew in a current to cool the almost too warm air, the world felt kind of perfect. He enjoyed it fully as he watched children play in the front yards of the houses he passed by. Breathing in the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass and with the heat of the sun on his back, John felt an overwhelming sense that everything was right. He tried to savor the feeling while he could, walking slowly in order to bottle memories of summer for a later day. Come the dead of winter, when it was bitterly cold and the snow had lost some of its charm, he would hop on one of the school’s buses and miserably dread his return outside.

The house was empty when he got back, not that he had expected otherwise. His dad worked in the city until five, so John wasn’t expecting to see him for another couple of hours. He set his bag down on the dining room table before getting down to important business: fixing himself a quick after-school snack to tide him over until dinner. On the menu was pita pizzas, which only took about five minutes to make and then another five minutes to cook in a toaster oven. When the timer beeped and the two small pita—loaded high with reduced-fat cheese and veggies—were pulled onto a plate, John headed back to the table.

Taking a bite out of the first pizza, John chewed slowly as he pulled out his Biology book. He fished out his pencil case to retrieve a pen, and then retrieved a lined notebook, opening it up and flipping to the first page. There was a lot to do that day, and he was once again appreciative of having the night off to work. It was tough re-acclimating to such a full schedule, and John knew he needed to take full advantage of the down time. After devouring his snack in half the time it took to make, John cracked his neck and got started.

///

It was easy to lose track of the time when focusing on homework. John just got so caught up in it, fixating so closely on questions until he forgot about anything besides finding an answer for them. The last time he had glanced at the clock it had been just past 3:30, but a rattle of keys and the opening of the front door prompted him to glance over to it again. It hadn’t felt like it, but he had been working for over two hours. John frowned, noting that he had just finished going through Alternian. There was plenty still left to cover.

His dad came walking through the door a moment later, greeting his child with a smile. “Hello, son, you look like you’re hard at work. How did your day go?” His dad looked almost as put together as he had in the morning: black tie perfectly straight, light suit still crisp, and not a hair out of place even though John knew he had been wearing his fedora. The only change was the five o’clock shadow, which didn’t even seem out of place on his face.

“It went pretty well.” John cracked open his Physics book and looked at the syllabus he had placed in there, almost surprised to see that the teacher had been telling the truth when he had said there would not be much assigned. Flipping a few pages to count the minimum number of questions, he continued to summarize his day. “My morning classes don’t look like they’re actually going to be too difficult. English is the shoo-in for sucking up most of my day-to-day homework time, but that’s not really anything new. On the plus side I’ve already read the material listed on the syllabus, so that will make it easier when those units come up. It’s also after lunch so I have more time to work on any projects assigned during the week. Math also looks like it’s going to have quite a bit, but if I keep ahead in it, it won’t be a problem.”

“You seem like you have a lot for your first day.” When John looked back up from his work, he found his dad leaning against the entry into the kitchen, thoughtfully holding an empty pipe to his lips. As the story went, he had quit smoking just after John was born, but couldn’t let go of the habit of pretending to when he wanted to relax.

“There was no work assigned. I’m just working from my syllabi about a week ahead for now, to get a jump start on some of the bigger assignments.” John copied down the questions out of the textbook, solving them with the simple formula used in the examples. He would miss how easy the beginning of term was when the school year had progressed . “On the weekend I’ll be able to get a lot further in Math and Physics, since they're both just assigned from the books.”

“You’re really working hard.” John’s pencil paused mid-answer as he glanced up at his smiling dad. Of course he would be working hard. On any other night, he wouldn’t have the luxury of free hours in the evening. He couldn’t always just wait until the weekend to complete assignments, which meant that this planning ahead was necessary. He wanted to list all the things he’d rather be doing than homework he hadn’t even been assigned, things that he actually thought were fun but couldn’t enjoy. It was pointless, though, because all he’d be accomplishing was repeating the obvious. Nothing would change except the appearance of a pity cake in his near future.

“Well, it’s a night off. I might as well use it,” John explained, turning back to the question he hadn’t quite finished. Once answered, he flicked his eyes back up only to see that his dad was full on beaming at him from across the room, grinning around his pipe. “I know that look. Don’t you say it.”

“What? That I'm proud of you?” John groaned, wondering if his dad ever got tired of saying that. “I am, though, John. You do so much for your future.” John snorted at that. There was never much choice in the matter of what his future would entail. What he worked for was assumed of him. It wasn’t as if he could just ignore a huge part of what made him who he was in favor of a lighter load. There was no way he would be able to just let go, because there was no way he could let down the people who depended on him. John didn’t know what his dad really wanted him to do once he graduated, but he was sure that, when the time came, he would be told what his plans were going to be.

Adopting a sarcastic tone, John stared at his father. “That's three times today. Are you trying to set a record?” He knew he wasn’t being fair. His dad had worked so hard to provide him with as good of a life as he possibly could. The sacrifice of down-time went both ways, all for the dedicated motive to raise John to be the best that he could be. The anger was misplaced, he knew that. His dad would listen to him if he complained, maybe even let him reduce his course load or bump down from his AP classes.

“Is anything wrong, son?” The opportunity to say something arose again, as it often did. Admitting that it was too difficult and saying that he had it too hard was what proved to be impossible time and time again.

“I think I’m just feeling kind of restless.” John told himself it wasn’t exactly lying; the quick laps at school had done nothing more than warm up and stretch out his body. His demanding muscles were just not the real root of the problem. “I think I’ll go for a jog when I’m done.” With a nod, his dad seemed to accept that reasoning, slipping into the kitchen to get started on dinner.

///

After the brief interruption of dinner, John continued to work through his classes until he had finished the lengthy vocabulary list for English. After plowing through the first unit of his Math text, he had to nurse a rather severe hand cramp for a few minutes, but besides that distraction, he had worked straight into the night. He paused mid-yawn as he looked to the clock, finding that it was already past ten. The surprise that colored his face came more from the fact that it wasn’t later than from the fact that it was already past ten; he usually wasn’t tired this early into the night and there was a fair chunk of hours remaining before his usual bedtime.

John got up, stretching the kinks out of his neck and back before shaking out his limbs. He felt stiff from being stationary for so long; it was something else he was going to have to get used to again. Deciding to follow through with his plan to go for a late-night jog, John headed up to his room to change into something a bit more comfortable. On his way out, he stopped by his dad’s study, knocking lightly on the door. With permission to leave and appreciation for asking, John headed out into the night.

The sky was black, scattered with the shaded grey of clouds and pinpricks of stars. Street lights illuminated his path as he jogged down the sidewalk, each footfall loud compared to the still evening. In the confines of the suburbs, the nights were always a surprising contrast to the days. The bustling life of the small community withdrew inwards and John seemed to be entirely alone. It was the city that never rested; just a short drive away made for an entire world of difference.

As his feet hit the ground and his breath steadied into a comfortable rhythm, John thought of the ways that the coming year could be better than the last. His time as a freshman had been about trying to fit in, juggling a desire to be social with a need to remain distant. It had taken a good while to find the balance between who he wanted to be and who he needed to be. There were a few roles that fit him well enough, and he was sure he could fall back into them again. There was a place for someone as studious as him at the front of each of his classes, buried in books and extra credit. There was a spot on the swim team for someone with his stamina and drive. There were a handful of tables he could sit at during lunch solely because he seemed like a nice guy. It was enough. Everything would be easier once he settled back into his paces.

  


A breeze picked up around him as he pumped his legs, pushing at his back in a way that encouraged him to let it steer him. Its guidance would come in simple gusts, mostly fixed in one direction with the occasional switch that cut John across roads quickly and down many different streets. Weaving through the neighborhood with the wind charting out his nonsensical path relaxed him to the point that he was surprised he had even been wound up so tightly. To think that school and high expectations had gotten to him more than his average day was actually pretty funny, in a sad sort of way.

Turning down another street that would have been a few blocks from his house had he taken a direct route, John noticed a large moving van parked outside a cookie-cutter house, nearly identical to the one next to it. The garage door was open wide, stacks of brown boxes piled high haphazardly around the space. What caught John’s attention was the light catching off of the polished white exoskeleton of a crustacean-type lusus. The sight of the crab-like biped meant its ward was young enough to still need a custodian. There weren’t too many young trolls living in the immediate area, as they tended to center more closely around schools when they were of that age. John’s neighborhood was considered far enough away that only a couple of homes were occupied with trolls that went to his school, and none that were in the same grade.

  


The lusus made a sharp screeching noise towards the back of the garage, followed by a few short clicks. Maybe it was talking to its troll? John had never been inside of a troll’s home, but he had heard that lusii were pretty intelligent, despite what their appearances might suggest. John took this as his cue to head back, figuring that he didn’t exactly live in close enough proximity for this to be considered his new neighbor. It also wasn’t exactly the right time of day to waltz on over and introduce himself, even if he did reside nearby.

As he jogged back down the way he had come, John glanced back over his shoulder, but the house faded out of sight before he ever caught a glimpse of the new troll on the block. That was alright, though, as sooner or later, he’d find out what was up. His dad always seemed keenly aware of everything going on in the area, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out our tumblr at [**realmenweartights.tumblr.com**](http://realmenweartights.tumblr.com/).  
> 
> 
> SM: We'll be posting status updates, pictures that WON'T be found in the story (including some **NSFW** ), the full-res versions of all pictures posted in the story, and lots of the discussion that went into world-building. It's also a great place to get your questions answered in a timely fashion, as one of us is almost always on.  
> I strongly suggest you stay on for at least another chapter.  
> You're in for a pretty big surprise in chapter 2! Which will be posted in just a few days.
> 
> Chief Writer - Bananaramses  
> Plot/Editor - SergeantMeow  
> Illustrator - Panicismyrain


	2. In Which John is Almost Late for School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright! Sorry for the slight delay. The chapter was finished by the time we posted Chapter 1, but our illustrator was on vacation. In any case, extra-long chapter for you guys. Enjoy!

When John opened his eyes, he was struck with the feeling of being uncharacteristically groggy. The night before, he had had the opportunity to go to bed at an hour that wasn’t considered ungodly by most, and he was suffering because of his choice. With a body unused to turning in anywhere close to midnight, John should have realized that he would be greeted by a fuzzy headache in the morning. Overslept and tired, John blinked away the sleep for a single moment before giving up, deciding his efforts were best spent wrapping his arms around a pillow. He drew it in, cuddling close until it seemed to be molded to his body. There were no openings to escape; that pillow was his to hug until he showed it mercy.

It couldn’t be long before his Dad made his appearance at the bedroom door, bright-eyed and way too chipper to get started on their morning exercise regimen. John groaned, rolling over, sure he would be fine with just five more minutes of rest to clear his head. There was no denying the inevitable, though, so he opened his eyes to greet the day. Light filtered in through thin curtains, which was a pretty peculiar phenomenon for five in the morning. There was a single moment of confused peace in his mind before all hell broke loose.

The sudden jolt of panic made him jump awake. John scrambled over to his other side, flailing before kicking his former cuddle partner off the bed in his urgency. In a tangled mess of blankets and limbs, John managed to roll over to confirm his suspicion: the glaring red numbers of his alarm clock read 7:48. He had slept straight through the irritating beeping, a very rare occurrence that had only ever ended with his dad waking him ten or so minutes later. But his dad hadn’t done his usual knocking tune on John’s door, for whatever reason. What John was left with was twelve minutes to get ready and physically be at school.

With a push against the mattress, John tried to jump out of bed but ended up just thrashing a bit as he struggled against his covers. He unwrapped himself as quickly as he could, scrambling to throw on the first things he pulled out of his dresser drawers. Hopping into a pair of shorts and pulling on a pair of socks, he had gone from night clothes to fully dressed in what his clock said was under two minutes. 7:50.

Glad for having taken a shower after last night’s jog, John’s bathroom routine was cut down to the basics of scrubbing his face with water, swiping on deodorant, and rapidly brushing his teeth. There was zero point in even attempting to sort out his hair and absolutely no time in which to humour it with trying. Without a second glance at the mirror, John shot out of the bathroom and back to his bedroom. Within seconds he had snatched up his glasses and grabbed his bag, catching sight of the 7:51 as he rushed out into the hallway again.

“Dad, why didn’t you wake me up?” John called as he bounded down the stairs, loud enough that he expected a response. Only there wasn’t one. When he got to the kitchen he assumed his dad would be sipping coffee at the table while reading the daily paper, ready to deliver a speech about the fact that John was a young adult which had something to do with not stopping him from sleeping in. Instead he found a typed note on the counter, next to a container and brown paper bag:

**SON.  
SOMETHING HAS COME UP AT WORK AND I HAD TO LEAVE EARLY TODAY. I HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD REST LAST NIGHT; YOU DESERVED IT. I AM SURE YOU HAVE GOTTEN UP WITH PLENTY OF TIME TO GET READY. YOU SHOULD TAKE PRIDE IN BEING SO SELF-SUFFICIENT. **

John groaned at his luck, all but stuffing two slices of bread in the toaster before bagging up his lunch in a reusable bag. There was no way he had time to reorganize all of his textbooks to fit the tupperware container. He glanced at the nearby clock on the coffee machine and let out a string of curses his dad definitely would not be proud of. 7:54. There were six minutes left, not enough time to do much of anything if he waited a couple of them for his toast. Running would take over ten minutes, a few less if sprinting, but he still couldn’t comfortably make it in the short timeframe he had. It really left him with only two options, one of which was being late for the second day of school.

When his toast popped, he stacked the pieces together and shoved them in his mouth. He headed for the front entrance, slipping his shoes on and tying the laces tightly. The goggles were where he had left them, hanging from the coat rack beside several classy white hats. He exchanged them with his glasses, placing the black frames at the top of his bag, before hurrying to the back door. Before stepping outside he knotted the top of his makeshift lunch bag, making sure nothing would fall out. He slipped it on his arm and tightened the straps of his backpack.

A full minute was used up just by looking around him, making sure he was alone. He scanned the windows where curtains were not drawn, listened for the sounds of movement coming from any surrounding house, and weighed his decision once more. It was kind of a terrible idea, something his dad explicitly told him not to do during the daylight. No one was around, though, so John chanced it. Smiling, he noted that this was an adventure he’d need to keep secret.

Bending his knees low, John kicked off the ground hard. It was a practiced maneuver, one that sent him rocketing into the air so quickly that anyone would be hard-pressed to even see what he was doing, much less recognize his face. If he was seen, he suspected it wouldn’t be until he was so high up that people wouldn’t know what they were looking at. Someone flying wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence, even if it wasn’t entirely unheard of, so he’d probably be misidentified as something else. Looking down and forming a grin, John found it entirely too fitting that the t-shirt he had pulled on sported the iconic Superman crest on the chest. Was he a bird, was he a plane? No, but good guesses. He was just your regular, everyday teen superhero trying to get to school on time.

  


Speed was his goal as he aimed for a low patch of clouds, thoroughly defying that age old saying of what goes up must come down. He laughed as the wind wrapped around him, causing him to almost lose a piece of toast. He caught it just in time, somersaulting as he twisted down. After that brief distraction, John shot through the line of clouds with a loop, spinning out of it until he stilled. At his current altitude, the rivers of air surrounding him should have been literally freezing, but for him they were only pleasantly cool. They greeted him as though they had missed his presence in his one day vacation, warming and circling around him in an almost motherly gesture. Floating among the clouds, John never had to come down so long as the wind agreed to his will.

He took a bite of his toast as he oriented himself in the direction he needed to go, grimacing as his teeth sunk into the bread. His decision to use the clouds as cover had gotten the two pieces soggy. He nibbled on corners but found the rest to be unsalvageable so he let the slices fall from his mouth. John looked down into the clouds, wondering where the bread would land. Probably on a roof somewhere or in a tree. Even if it fell where someone saw it, they would most likely chalk it up to crows. He was pretty sure no one was going to guess that it had once been the breakfast of a flying boy who was potentially late for school. Just to be safe, he also noted that this was a secret too before he flew away from above the scene of the crime.

It would take him at the very most a minute to get to school at his current height and speed, he figured. The wind rushed in his ears, whispering to him as it engulfed his body. Yesterday had been hard, being grounded to essentially act out the life of an average kid when the sky was his real world. John savoured just how nice it felt to fly during the day, with the sun on his face as he dipped fingers through white clouds. He couldn’t even remember the last time he was able to fly during the daytime. A stray gust blew teasingly at his face and he laughed into it, bending it behind him so it joined the current pushing him forward. It twisted around him, a fluttering touch that snaked around his leg. Any of his melancholy worries from yesterday melted away and became insignificant as he felt the wind caress him so intimately.

  


Enjoying himself for one final moment, John rolled through the air before making a dive down out from above the clouds. He pumped his fists, seeing that the wind had guided him directly above the school, right where he needed to be. Quickly moving downwards, as much for saving time as it was to dry his clothes, he aimed for a spot on the far corner behind the school. The scattered trees there would make for good cover, in case anyone did catch sight of him. He landed with a bounce, quickly taking off his backpack to switch out his goggles for his glasses before checking his watch. There was hardly a minute to spare.

John made a mad sprint to the door and quickly tugged at the handle, expecting it to open, only to be met with resistance. After pushing and pulling in rapid succession, he confirmed with dismay that the door was indeed locked. He didn’t have time to circle around to the front of the school, so, glancing around quickly for any potential witnesses, John decided his reckless streak of the day was going to have to continue. He sighed before he tightened his grip on the handle, pressed his other hand onto the opposite door, squared his feet, and jerked back. The bolt keeping the door locked wrenched away with a quick snap, shearing off in a clean cut.

  


A single glance was spared to the thoroughly destroyed lock and he thought about how exactly someone was going to explain what had happened. Attempted burglary, perhaps? Would the school look into it or would they simply shrug it off and make the repairs? John decided any more consideration of what he had done could wait until he was sitting in Biology class.

///

Without the extra stop at his locker—with his bag carrying every book he could need for the day, there was no point in wasting any time—John made it to his class just before the tardy bell rang. He slumped in his chair, letting his backpack fall on the ground with a loud thump. A couple of students around him jumped, glancing over at him for disturbing whatever it was they were doing, and a few bleary-eyed students looked up at him with glares from where they had been trying to catch a few more moments of sleep. Feeling self-conscious of the stares he was getting, John ran a hand through his hair, wondering just how windswept it had gotten during his flight. A few gazes lingered on his head, prompting John to try and explain himself.

“Crazy morning,” John laughed, shrugging to them. His explanation was enough, apparently, as people resumed ignoring him, their attentions turning back to their closer companions. He sighed in relief before sitting up, glancing around the room. He was interested to note that there were a handful of new faces occupying seats that had been empty the day before. He wasn’t very surprised; it was normal for the first week for kids to still be transferring in, shifting around their class schedules, or returning from long vacations. There would probably be kids in and out of the class the entire week. In the seat in front of him was one such new person. Judging by the the small horns he sported, it was a troll, actually.

Struck with the sensation that there was something strangely familiar about those nubby horns, John tapped lightly on the shoulder in front of him. The troll stiffened before he turned to face him, wearing a rather prominent scowl. Like the rest of his species, he had the pallid grey skin, glossy black hair, and colourful, candy corn horns. It was the angular face that sported a sharp jaw and the eyes behind black-framed glasses that made him sure they had met. Those narrowed eyes reflected his blood colour, a rusty red that placed him at the bottom of the Troll’s hemospectrum, an observation which gave him thought. Though it wasn’t nearly as prominent in their society as it had once been, John was pretty sure some elitist Highbloods still targeted others simply for being what they called Lowbloods.

“What do you want?” was the annoyed response to his prod. Catching himself staring, John realized that, despite those angular features set in a face without a hint of baby fat, the troll was really kind of cute. It had to be those little nubby horns, and maybe partially because he was sporting a Batman hoodie. John let out a nervous laugh.

“Hi, Bruce,” John quipped, pointing at the troll’s hoodie. He could only hope that the troll would catch on to his reference; plenty of people these days owned hero paraphernalia without knowing anything about the origins of the symbols they wore. Red eyes flicked down, glancing at the ‘S’ shield on John’s chest. He wouldn’t have guessed how full those lips would be when they fell out of the tight scowl.

“Are you wanting me to call you Clark?” The look was curious, despite the low eyebrows and slight frown. It hit him then, so suddenly that he caught himself gaping. He remembered where he’d seen this guy before. A week ago, the troll had been caught in the middle of a shootout in the city. It had been a classic case of being in the wrong place at the the wrong time. The troll had been ducking behind a shot-up car between a group of would-be bank robbers and the police attempting, and failing, to stop them. They hadn’t been able to return fire without risking the safety of an innocent bystander, and the criminals were taking full advantage of that. John had swooped in, scooped him up, and saved the troll before anyone even knew he was there. He remembered looking down into those surprised eyes as the sounds of guns firing echoed in his ears. There had been an awed thanks muttered as he left the troll a few blocks away, a light blush gracing those grey cheeks which he had tried to cover with one hand. The parting image had been of the troll clutching onto a grocery bag full of what looked like lusus food, watching dumbstruck as John flew away. 

“John,” he managed, before his silence stretched to a point of being awkward. He had never gotten the opportunity to actually talk to someone he had saved before. It had always been just fly in, save the day, and fly off once everyone was safe. But here was a chance to find out how someone was doing after being rescued, perhaps even get to know them a little. That was an idea that the teen rarely entertained; having friends meant putting them in danger. Still, John let himself wonder what it would be like to be close to the nubby-horned troll. They already seemed to have one thing in common: they both wore superhero clothes, so maybe they both liked superheroes. John just had a better than normal understanding of what those superheroes went through on a day-to-day, or, actually, night-to-night, basis. “What’s your name?”

The troll frowned, eyeing John with distaste. “It’s none of your goddamn business.” His response was a dark mumble as he spun back to face the front. Well. He had picked the appropriate hoodie to match his attitude, at least. John was so preoccupied with eying up those horns that he nearly missed his name being called. Apparently the teacher had ceased preparing for the day’s lesson and had begun work on taking attendance. All he had to do was wait for the name that the troll responded to and he’d have his answer. What exactly he was going to do with it, John wasn’t sure. Nearly the entire class roll had had been called when the boy in front of him raised his hand: Karkat Vantas.

“It’s nice to meet you, Karkat,” John said, leaning forward in his chair. The troll gave him a quick glance over his shoulder, which was basically the most unimpressed look John had ever seen.

  


John’s response was immediate, the laughter barely contained, with him forcing the rest of it down after a choked-off snort. Karkat tilted his head, staring at him like he was the biggest idiot he had ever met and—wow, this guy had an expressive face! John really did start snickering, covering his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle the sound.

“Mr. Egbert, you are free to talk after class, but not during. I trust I won’t have to tell you again,” the teacher promptly called. John let out a laugh, putting up his hands in surrender as he apologized. Maybe after class was over, he’d have the chance to find out a bit more about Karkat Vantas.

///

Biology began with further introductions into what the science was all about, proceeded with the start of the first unit, and finished with the class being assigned homework that John had already finished. As the class was winding to a close, John absently reviewed the questions the rest of his classmates were seeing for the first time. He mentally reviewed his answers, and, when done with that, flipped through the next unit to get a glance at what it was he’d be doing during the weekend. It didn’t take long for the motivation to be proactive to leave him. Eyes unfocused as he zoned out, John idly thought about how he was going to have to get back into his usual after-school routine and how much he really wasn’t looking forward to resuming the cramped scheduling of someone with his abilities. It took him nearly a minute into his ponderings to realize that he had settled on staring at the back of Karkat’s head.

He had never had a troll sit in front of him during class before, despite the school being almost an even split between the two species. Honestly, he had never even been that driven to take in the various differences between humans and trolls before, either, preferring to just see people as people regardless of species. His life was dedicated to protecting each equally, a purpose that left surface qualities and racial judgments out of the picture. But now that he was staring ahead, examining Karkat’s features, those things he hadn’t really paid attention to before were standing out: the curve and the point of the ears, how coarse that black hair appeared, and the horns. The horns, he’d noticed, came in all shapes and sizes, something he could observe by just looking around the classroom. Karkat’s, in contrast to most he had seen, were small and rather rounded. What was really interesting was the faint texture to them, since they normally appeared smooth from any greater distance. The bold stripes of colour ran into each other with rough blending between shades, standing out amidst the general monochromatic appearance that trolls had. John found them pretty beautiful, actually.

Just before the bell was set to ring, the teacher called out over the voices of the students who had decided to forgo their work in favour of socializing. John snapped to attention, tearing his eyes away from the horns of his classmate and listening as the teacher delivered a piece of good news. “Before you leave, I’d just like to let you all know that Biology Club will have its first meeting after school tomorrow. If you’re interested, we meet here at three.” John grinned, a reminder swiftly jotted down in his planner. While he might have a full schedule, he could always make room for a few extracurricular activities.

The class ended on that final note, the students quick to spring up and leave once the bell rang and they were dismissed. Staying in his seat and making a show of slowly shoving his stuff into his backpack, John watched Karkat pack up his things and head for the front of the room, purposefully weaving around slower moving students. He still couldn’t shake the desire to talk to the troll, despite the abrasive attitude he got from the first impression—second, if he counted the dumbstruck gaze of a shocked citizen as a real meeting. His dad had never disallowed interacting with others, just stressed that he should know what could happen; if someone on the wrong side found out who he was and found who he cared about, it would make John’s connections into targets. It was much easier to take out a normal person than it was to take him down, after all. There was potential for a ransom scenario, being used as bait, or even someone being placed as a mark to discover his weaknesses. Just putting his own father in harm’s way was bad enough. He had often weighed the repercussions of wanting friendship, but he had never once found that it was worth the danger to the other person’s life. 

But damn if he wasn’t considering throwing caution to the wind, for a change. Loneliness had been weighing heavily on him lately, and coming back to school to see everyone chatting and having a good time with their friends had done little to help. The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded. He had saved Karkat once already, after all, so who was to say that he couldn’t just do it again if the troll found himself in danger? It was a bit selfish to think like that, he knew, but as he watched Karkat leaving the classroom with a sense of longing churning at his guts, John found that he didn’t hate the thought of being selfish, just this once. Besides, as of yet, no one had ever discovered his civilian identity as John Egbert, and he was only becoming more careful and sure of his abilities to mask himself in public as he grew. How likely was it that someone would find him out and use an acquaintance against him, really? John wagered not very. The guilt of potentially endangering someone without their knowledge was pushed back for a hope to just pretend to be a regular teenager, with a regular teenage friend. He didn’t want to use the excuse of checking up on someone he had saved just to get to know someone.

Making up his mind just as Karkat left his field of sight, John sprang up and rushed out the door after him, doing his best to dodge and weave the remaining students in the classroom. He spotted the troll amongst the flood of students in the hall and called out to him. “Hey, Karkat, wait up!” If he had heard him, the troll made no sign of stopping. Granted, all of the people around them made it pretty hard to just cease moving. Also, John knew from experience that it was always really annoying when others obstructed the hallways, so Karkat was most likely being respectful and not just ignoring him blatantly. At least that’s what he optimistically chose to believe, anyway. John followed, hoping that Karkat would make a detour to his locker at some point rather than going straight to the next class. To his luck, Karkat drifted to the side and halted at one of the lockers lining the hallway, and was still fiddling with a combination lock when John caught up with him. 

The troll looked up from his lock briefly to fix John with an annoyed glance before looking back down. “I am going to deliver this concept to you at a first grade level, so hopefully you’ll be able to keep up,” Karkat started, frowning as he spun the wrong sequence of numbers. He tugged the lock a couple of times, just in case he had been close. As his efforts were unrewarded, he spun the dial back to zero and made another attempt. “Newsflash, Clark—observe the big, bold, proverbial headline of the point I am trying to make in the simplest way possible—I don’t want to talk to, at, or with you. As a matter of fact, I would be quite pleased with this awkward social interaction if you left me to struggle with this shitty lock alone and kindly fucked right off.”

“Well, that’s okay,” John laughed, prompting another look that was somewhere between disgusted and confused. It seemed that the troll’s face either automatically set to a negative expression, or he just really didn’t like John. John hoped it was the former because he seriously didn’t want to mess up while trying to make his first real friend. In any case, there was no doubt Karkat was really, hilariously, emotive. “You know, since my name is John, not Clark.”

The first response was a groan, shortly followed by Karkat hitting his head against his still closed locker. “Oh god damn it.” John was a little concerned, but it wasn’t completely evident if the troll was actually that irritated or if it this was just his normal personality. He hoped he wasn’t misinterpreting what could actually be annoyance. 

“So, are you new?” John asked, leaning against the locker next to him and pointedly ignoring the way Karkat lifted and hit his head against the locker a second time. Looking around, John noticed that, as his good luck would have it, his own locker was just a single row down from this one. He hoped that this was a sign, if a weak one, that he was on the right path. Without the wind blowing, directing him where he needed to be, he was not so sure of himself or his actions. 

With a resounding cry, Karkat finally managed to get the right set of numbers, swiftly swinging open the locker door and narrowly missing John’s face. “You’re not going to go away, are you?” Even as he let loose with a frustrated exhale, some of the tension in Karkat’s face eased. Eyebrows not quite so drawn and lips nearly lifting, there was a look of amused curiosity behind his glasses as he shifted his gaze to the teen beside him without turning his head.

  


“Not answering my question, but nope, I’m not! Unless you’re that adamant that you don’t want to play nice with other children. Totally your loss, though.” There was a hint of a smile struggling against the taut line of the troll’s lips, just enough of a positive reaction for John to figure he hadn’t misjudged the other. He grinned boldly as Karkat ducked back behind the door, busying himself with organizing his books. “So, where are you headed?”

The troll emerged a moment later only to stuff a textbook into his backpack and slam the door to his locker. He had settled back into his frown as though it had never faltered, giving John a scrutinizing once-over. There was no reply in regards to the previous question, just an unimpressed look as he continued to stare John down. The silence was starting to hang between them for an unsettling length of time, only to be broken with a completely unexpected question. “Are you trying to hit on me?”

John spluttered, gesturing with his hands and shaking his head while trying to insist that no, he wasn’t flirting. It was challenging enough for him to consider pursuing just a friendship. Striving for a romantic relationship was not something John could even conceive of doing, much less do to someone he had just met. He didn’t even know how he would go about doing something like that.

Whatever he did manage to get out of his mouth apparently put Karkat’s suspicions at ease. Some of the tension the troll held in his body relaxed, that hint of a smile returning. “The class you’re currently preventing me from going to with your inane gesture of friendship is Film. If you’re going to insist on speaking, you’ll have to do it on the move, as I am not about to let some overly friendly, bucktoothed asshole make me late for the one class I get to fucking enjoy.”

John tried not to let his disappointment show. He had hoped against all odds that they would have shared the next class, as well. They could have walked the halls together, sat beside each other, and gotten closer towards becoming friends. Instead, there were only a few minutes left in what could be their only time to get to know each other during the day. He couldn’t even walk Karkat over to his class without being late for his own, since all the language classrooms were pretty much as far away as they could possibly be from the Film room.

While John was lamenting, Karkat offered him another frown. “Look, I wasn’t kidding when I said you were not going to make me late. You have about thirty seconds left of my time before I walk away, with or without you finishing whatever it is you’re trying to do here. So how about you wipe that look of minor devastation off your face, because seriously, you look like a barkbeast who just received a swift kick to the gut for all your incessant yapping. It’s one of the most pathetic displays I’ve seen someone our age have the shame to perform, and I’ve been known to associate with some pretty pathetic fuckers in my time. I’m going to make you a suggestion: just ask me for my stupid schedule already.” John perked up. The whole lead up to that final offer had his attempt at earning a friend looking pretty bleak, but John was starting to see that Karkat was just wordy. The troll was right; just because they had different subjects in the second block didn’t mean the rest of the day was accounted for. There was still the potential for a handful of times they could get to see one another.

“Heh, okay. Can I see your schedule, Karkat?” It only took a moment for the troll to produce the list from his bag. The troll looked away as he handed the paper over, perhaps embarrassed in his readiness to offer it. Quickly scanning over it, John’s eyes widened along with his smile as he took in the class list. While they might not share the second or fourth blocks of the day, the rest of Karkat’s classes were the same as John’s. Sometimes it paid unexpected benefits taking AP classes, apparently, because what were the odds of them having such similar schedules otherwise?

“Well?” Karkat prompted, reaching his hand out with that angry, curious expression he wore too well. John returned the paper with a laugh.

“Alright, then, I won’t take up anymore of your time. Well, you know, right now. Because I’ll see you in Physics, Karkat!” John decided to keep the other shared classes as a surprise, wondering how the troll would take them seeing each other the vast majority of the day.

“Of course you will. Wonderful. So looking forward to you taking up the majority of my mornings with your apparent obsession with finding out my life’s story, with or without my consent. So excited for this to be a thing.” The troll huffed, flipping John a rude hand gesture before quickly heading down the hall without so much as a goodbye. John watched him for a moment before heading to his own locker to drop off his lunch bag and a few extra textbooks. With the potential of making a friend looking slightly more hopeful, for the first time in a long time, John was looking forward to pretending to be a regular, ordinary teenager.

///

For how much John had been looking forward to Physics with Karkat, there was little headway to be made in the friendship department during the actual class. There had been a few attempts to strike up quiet conversation before John realized that Karkat was the type of person who took his schooling very seriously. The troll’s attention had been fixed on the teacher, pointedly ignoring John’s best efforts to grab his attention in favor of taking notes; when Karkat’s eyes were not drawn to the front of the room, they were on his textbook as he diligently worked away. All John had to show for his efforts were a few instances where Karkat glared at him before returning to being a shining example of productivity.

When the bell rang for lunch, Karkat turned to John, practically seething. Apparently he didn’t appreciate John’s efforts to talk to him during class time. “What exactly did I do to be punished with your attention? Is being obnoxiously fucking cheerful and persistently overly-friendly just all in a day’s work for you, or is there a bet going on amongst our peers to see how long I will put up with this bullshit? I am calling you out, you insipid douchebag. If this is some kind of game then you can shove it so far up your waste chute that you taste your deceitful assclownery for a fortnight. It would taste like shame and excrement, just so you’re clear.”

“Woah, no.” John really didn’t think a couple of prompting remarks and one passed note justified that kind of a verbal lashing. He wondered if this was Karkat’s idea of kidding around, just his charming way of talking, or if he actually had that short of a fuse. Apparently trolls had worse temperaments than humans, or so John had heard, but he had never actually noticed a huge difference between the two species before. “Karkat, gross, for one. And no, I’m not trying to trick you or anything. The thing is I’m not so great when it comes to making friends, but, well, I guess that’s kind of obvious? I was just really looking forward to talking to you more.” John frowned, a look of uncertainty pasting itself on his face. “ If, um, if you don’t want me talking to you, I can stop.”

“Did I ever say you had to stop, dumbass? If you’re actually just unimaginably awful at getting to know someone—and you really are, for future reference—then I guess I can give you the benefit of the doubt,” Karkat grumbled, getting his things together. John followed suit, a slow smile spreading on his lips over the fact that the troll was still willing to give him a chance. Insults seemed like a thing Karkat just did, and John guessed he could get used to that if the other didn’t actually mean them. It might take a bit of time for him to figure out which parts of Karkat’s rants were genuine and which were just padding, but that was fine by him. On reflection, the previous little outburst had been kind of funny. “Do you have lunch now?”

“Yeah.” John’s stomach took its cue to grumble, reminding him that his attempts at breakfast had been thwarted by the clouds. He laughed, patting it in a reassuring way. “Good thing, too. I’m pretty hungry. Want to eat together?”

“Let me think,” Karkat stood and John mirrored his action, ready to get started on eating. Instead of heading out, Karkat leaned against his desk, looking thoughtfully irritated. A variety of all kinds of pissed-off definitely seemed like expressions the troll had some practice with. “Watching you fumble all over yourself in your pathetic attempts to win my platonic affections, or eating lunch with one of my more tolerable acquaintances and the ragtag group of misfits she tends to associate her classy self with? Tough one, give me a second.”

“Oh shoot, sorry, I just thought—” John started, only to be promptly cut off for lack of volume. Karkat easily overtook the soft apology, barreling on with too many words. It would be funny, if John wasn’t so sure he was messing up.

“You just thought that because I’m new I wouldn’t know anyone in this school and you could wriggle your way into my life like a parasitic worm, infecting me with the friendship disease until my mind rotted away enough that I couldn’t help but want to spend all my time with you. Yes, a truly noble gesture you should be proud of.” 

Boy, John’s ears felt pretty red. He was about to offer up another apology before Karkat surprised him again. “So let’s get out of this classroom already and get some food. I imagine you know wherever we’ll be eating? Who am I kidding, you’ve probably planned this shit out already.”

“Wait, so you’re eating with me?” John really wasn’t following the troll, who had genuinely seemed angry just now right up until offering to go to lunch with him. Karkat quirked an eyebrow, that hint of a smile back and with a lot more amusement than there had just been. 

“It’s either you trying to engage me in awkward conversation or a crowd doing the same thing. Except while you seem to be doing this honestly, they’d be doing it simply as a favor to our mutual friend. Frankly, I think you’re a lot more amusing, in a borderline migraine-inducing, suspected mental disorder kind of way. So yes, I’m eating lunch with you. Congratu-fucking-lations. Want a gold star?” That had been a lot of words for a ‘yes’.

“Man, you are chatty. Are you buying lunch or did you pack one?” Karkat shoved John’s shoulder lightly for the small jab before he headed for the door. The teacher looked up from her desk on their way out, but offered nothing more than a funny look. She had probably heard their entire conversation, maybe even wondered about stepping in as Karkat’s volume escalated and his colorful words rang clear. John laughed at that thought, enjoying the sound of the chuckle from the troll at his side.

“Fuck off. I’m buying.” They stopped as they exited the classroom, a delay in which John debated getting something from the lunchroom in favor of leaving to go to his locker. Deciding it was silly to let a good, homemade meal go to waste—and that Karkat probably wasn’t going to ditch him at this point, even though that was a pretty legitimate possibility—John made plans to meet up with his newfound potential-buddy by the exit doors in the cafeteria. Karkat waved over his shoulder as they parted ways. Just the feeling that small gesture gave John made him decide that all the confusion and uncertainty was worth it.

///

When he entered the lunchroom, John was almost surprised to see Karkat waiting for him exactly where they'd agreed to meet. The troll was tearing into an apple while a fashionably-dressed female troll chatted to him casually—Kanaya, if he remembered correctly, a frequent member of the groups he sometimes ate with. John’s eyes met Karkat’s as he headed over, causing Karkat to nod slightly to the other troll, a gesture which made her glance up, smile his way, and then head for a nearby table. Instead of following her, Karkat stood his ground.

That alone was a little boost to John’s confidence, reassuring him that he hadn’t made a mistake when attempting to get to know this particular troll. When he had set out on this friend-getting mission, John really hadn’t been sure how it would go. He didn’t really know how someone would react to him engaging them with his full attention, if his enthusiasm came off too strong, or if he would say the wrong things. Thinking about it, John supposed that either he was doing alright, or Karkat was just weird enough to give him a chance.

“I was thinking we could eat by my tree, since it’s nice out,” John suggested, holding the door open after stepping outside. Instead of going through it Karkat shouldered open the adjacent one, apple held firmly in his mouth as he held onto his tray with both hands. The small act of defiance and the challenging little glance John was given just seemed entirely too silly. Laughing lightly, he led the way to his favorite eating spot.

  


They walked together until they stood just beyond the reach of the tree’s shade. As usual, no one had claimed the area or anywhere relatively nearby as a suitable place to spend their lunch break. It always made John curious how no one else ever seemed to seek out the cover of leaves or the relaxing sway of branches in the wind. He didn’t get why others were so content to avoid the spot, but at least it meant it was nearly always free when he wanted it.

“So, you were actually being serious about deciding to claim ownership of a tree.” There was a hint of disbelief in Karkat’s voice before he sighed, though it was mixed heavily into a defeated tone that seemed to suggest that he should have expected nothing less.

“It’s not like I actually own it. That would be dumb. But it may as well be mine for how much I eat out here and how little anyone else seems to.” Maybe it was the wind keeping others away, guarding the location for John by picking up in a way that might be considered irritating. Not everyone enjoyed having their hair looking as though it had been styled by a tornado. Instead of its usual warm greeting, the breeze seemed to keep its distance from the pair now, hesitant to welcome John back when he wasn’t alone. It pulsed through the air, a steady presence that did little more than assure John that it was there.

“So, for whatever reason, despite your looks and personality, you’re a social pariah who spends most of his free time socializing with a tree. I’m glad we covered that.” After the jab, Karkat took a seat, placing his tray on the grass in front of him. John paused for a moment, trying to figure out what the troll had meant, before realizing he was just standing there. Taking the look Karkat shot him as his cue, John settled in the spot beside him, leaning his back against the tree.

“Whatever.” He untied the bag he had stuffed his lunch in that morning, extracting the tupperware container and small brown bag. There were the usual capital letters spelling out just how proud his dad was with him written across the paper, and John quickly turned it away so Karkat wouldn’t be inclined to read something kind of embarrassing. “So, are you new to the area?”

“Yeah,” Karkat said around the last bite of his apple. He chewed for a moment before continuing. “My lusus thought it would be a swell idea for us to pick up our city apartment and throw it in a house in the middle of suburbia on the day school started. We just managed to cram a shit-ton of precariously stacked boxes into the garage last night, and narrowly avoided a well-deserved noise complaint. He’s probably made an attempt at unpacking already, despite how many times I told him to wait until I got home. That means confetti sized pieces of cardboard scattered around everywhere and everything in the wrong place to look forward to this afternoon.”

The entire scene which Karkat was describing sounded awfully familiar, despite how ambiguous the facts were at this point. “Your lusus doesn’t happen to be a large, bipedal crab, does he?” 

Karkat stopped mid-bite, jaw tightening and looking as though he was seriously trying to bore a hole through John’s head. He swallowed carefully, his piercing gaze never wavering from John’s face. “I am going to ask you something seriously, and I deserve an honest answer from having to even consider putting up with you for any length of time: are you stalking me? Because you know that you shouldn’t, and I am getting some serious love-confession-followed-by-a-stabbing vibes from you.” 

“While that sounds pretty tempting, except not at all, I saw him moving in last night when I was out for a jog and took a guess that he was your lusus. We live pretty close to each other, actually,” John explained, hoping it would be enough to ease Karkat’s wariness. The troll nodded, his eyes still watching John, before he picked up his sandwich from his tray and bit into it. Seeing him get started on his food prompted John to get started on his own sandwich. After a few rushed mouthfuls to appease his stomach, John decided to probe. “You lived in the city? Why’d you leave?”

“Crabdad lost it and wouldn’t stop insisting that we settle somewhere more quiet after some shit that sort of happened last week. For how utterly useless he is as a lusus most of the time, he decided that he was at least going to be needlessly overprotective of me. If his screeching hadn’t worked to force me, I’m sure we would have been kicked out. Fucking persistent asshole.”

“What happened?” John could already guess the reason. It was a bit of a challenge adding just the right amount of concern and feigned ignorance to his voice when he already had an idea of what happened, but he was really interested to hear an explanation in Karkat’s own words. Karkat hesitated only to give John a calculating once-over, but answered his question readily enough.

“I got caught up in the middle of something downtown and nearly died. Despite knowing full well that going out past midnight in any part of the city is basically painting a target on your back for some sort of petty criminal, my fatass lusus ran out of food and I had to go out to get him more. There was one of those 24 hour stores just a couple blocks from my old place and, despite the likelihood of getting mugged by some strung out lowlife or desperate wannabe gang-banger or something, I went anyways to avoid Crabdad’s complaining. I was lucky that no one tried to rob me and I successfully got the food, but on my way back some assholes decided that they were going to rob a bank just as I was walking by. I was walking by just as the cops pulled up and these guys busted out the front doors, opening fire like they thought the best plan for a successful robbery was to impersonate every bankrobber they had ever seen in the movies and just shoot anything that moved. So I dove behind a car and started crying, because what the fuck, I was going to die for lusus food?” The troll shot John a somewhat hesitant glance, most likely embarrassed to be sharing such intimate details of his near-death experience with someone he’d just met. Seeing that he had John’s rapt attention, he continued.

“And then while I was cowering behind that car, sobbing to myself like a stupid wriggler and counting down the seconds until one of the bullets flying around my head ended my pathetic existence, Heir flew in. Before I’d even realized what was happening, he had lifted me in his arms like I weighed fucking nothing and carried me off to safety.” Karkat smiled softly to himself, his expression wistful. John felt himself grinning too, caught up in enjoying the sudden gentleness of the troll’s words. He felt warm inside as Karkat recalled the events, buzzing with the knowledge that he was able to save someone and hear just how grateful they were firsthand.

  


“I guess it’s not all that surprising that he’d show up with all those guns going off and everything. You hear about him swooping in to stop crimes and take down people overpowering the police all the time, but for him to actually be there right in front of my eyes, in the flesh? Being face to face with a real superhero is just...awe-inspiring.” Karkat paused, shooting John a curious, almost sheepish, look. “You _do_ know about Heir, right? You haven’t actually been living under a rock the past few years?”

John nodded, feeling his face begin to heat up, his cheeks flaring over the admiration laced in Karkat’s words. “Of course I’ve heard of Heir. Superheroes are great, especially the real ones.” 

“Yeah. Well, Heir’s just as amazing as he looks on the news or in the comics, only he’s even better in person. And at such a young age, too. I’m sure a lot of people forget how much younger he is than the media depicts him, but he can’t be much older than we are.” Karkat chanced a look up at the sun filtering itself through the leafy canopy of the tree as he played the events of that night over in his mind. “I think it’s fucking amazing what Heir does for this city and its people. And not just because he saved my life, either. Dropping out of the sky, grabbing some helpless citizen, and flying them to safety before heading back to save the day, that’s something he does all the time.” Karkat looked down in embarrassment, poking at his half eaten sandwich. “I never even got a chance to say anything to him. As soon as he set me down a few blocks away and made sure I wasn’t injured, he was already flying back to the robbery. I’d just really like to thank him properly, you know? And I know it’s stupid to assume he’d even remember one troll out of all the hundreds of people he’s rescued, but if given the chance, I’d want to tell him how much I appreciate what he did for me. Even if it’s what he does every day.”

“You never know,” John started, a grin stretching wide across his face at the earnest sincerity in Karkat’s voice. He was interrupted for a moment by the bell signaling the end of the lunch period, and picked himself off the ground and then offered Karkat a hand up. “It’s not the biggest city there is. You might get the chance to tell him, someday.”

///

When John got home at the end of the school day, he immediately set to work going about his customary task of making something to eat. Deciding on pasta for the ease and readiness, John got started as quickly as he could. His stomach had complained throughout the rest of the day for skipping out on eating the bulk of his lunch in favor of listening to Karkat, and by the time P.E. had finished, John was ravenous. The usual walk home had been replaced with a quick jog, his priorities set more in favor of getting food into his stomach than enjoying the summer day. So as he waited for the water to boil, John finished the other half of his lunch that he hadn’t gotten to during school, deciding he would have to do better at multitasking between talking to his new friend and eating if he didn’t want to experience this every day.

Once his pasta was cooked and eagerly consumed, John had plenty of time to wonder what his dad would say to his interesting news. With confidence, John could now say that he was making headway with Karkat, at least after how much the troll had seemed to tolerate John’s attempts to get his attention throughout the rest of the day. It was enough to be sure that he was, or would soon be, a friend, which already made the troll a potential target if he was ever found out. Looking forward to what he’d say when Dad came home, he wasn’t sure whether to feel excited or worried over the conversation they’d be having. He had prepared a list of reasonings just in case his dad disagreed with his decision.

With his homework already finished for the rest of the week and no other pressing concerns for the day, John figured he might as well get started on his workout routine, and so after tossing his used dish into the sink, he set out to the exercise room. To be fair, it was actually less of a room and more the entire basement. The lower level conversion had been necessary after John outgrew the usefulness of commercial martial arts classes, which, while they had supplied him with a strong foundation for his dad to work with, John had had plenty to learn outside of what a dojo would or could teach a child. There weren’t exactly places that taught young boys the extreme situations they would deal with when stopping crime at night in a big city, after all. Things like taking on an armed combatant or how winding the impact of a bullet was were not things his dad had been willing for him to learn out on the ‘job’. He had taught John well, trained him, and showed him the painful realities of fighting so that he could work out ways to avoid them if they happened for real.

John dedicated an hour to running through t’ai chi forms before switching to a more stylized, mixed martial arts routine. After he felt content with exercising the movements, he moved over to the rack of weights on the other side of the room, which he used less for strength training and more for endurance and warming up his muscles. The last thing he needed was more muscle tone to add to his already abnormal strength, after all. He kept that up until he heard the front door open upstairs and stopped after finishing the set he was on. The work-out left his body feeling loose and ready for the night ahead of him, leaving him with only a few things to do before he set out.

After a quick shower upstairs, John headed down into the kitchen where his dad was dishing up dinner. He received a glance when he entered, a towel still draped over his shoulders. His dad’s gaze fixed on John’s still-dripping hair, but John ignored it, because really there was no point in drying it when the wind would take care of it soon. “Hi, son, I trust you made it to school alright?” John laughed shortly and nodded, hoping the light chuckle didn’t sound too guilty. Picking up his plate and offering his thanks, John sat down at the table and decided on how he was going to bring up Karkat. “How was school, son?”

“It was good...kind of great, actually.” He tried to keep his enthusiasm to a minimum to hide some of the excitement bubbling in his chest when recalling the recently-made memories of his first real attempt to make a genuine friend. “There’s a new troll in my class who is new to the neighborhood: Karkat Vantas. I saw his lusus moving in when I was on my jog last night and thought you might be going to say hi, since you tend to do that. Anyways, Karkat and I got to talking a bit, since we share all of our AP classes, and we hit it off.” John paused, taking a tentative breath. It was the moment of truth and the last moment he had to back out. He was expected to finish his thought and to speak his honest convictions, despite any consequences, however. Truths were hard to keep from his dad. “I’d like to be his friend.”

The response came first as a raised brow as his father watched as John fidgeted and bit his lip in a nervous gesture. Next came a slow nod, and John wasn’t quite sure if it was out of understanding or actual approval. “Of course, John. If you want to be this boy’s friend, I am not going to stop you. I’m sure you’ve thought about this and I trust you to make your own decisions.”

With a sigh, John relaxed muscles he hadn’t even realized he’d been tensing, and any tension left hanging in the air dissolved. The remainder of the meal was filled with idle chit-chat as they relayed their respective days. Of course, John kept his morning flight and destruction of school property out of his retelling, admitting that he had slept in yet not expressing that it had been past the point where he could make it by running. Whatever meeting his dad had had to rush to so early for had gone by well enough, though he expected a sudden follow up in the near future. When they were both finished eating, John helped his dad clear the table, though he was stopped before he got to work on cleaning the dishes.

“It’s getting dark, John. Go ahead and get ready, I’ll finish up here.” John sighed but complied to his dad’s wishes, leaving his dishes in the sink before heading upstairs to his room. Rolling his shoulders, he made his way over to the large poster of Captain America next to his desk, taking a moment to admire the pose of one of his long-standing favorites of fictional heroism. He was careful in unpinning the top corners, letting the paper fold downwards to reveal a small, round cam lock set into the wall. The key for the latch was pulled from his school bag, dangling from a chain he had once worn around his neck when he was younger and didn’t find it noticeable. John twisted it in the lock until he heard a click, then pushed lightly against the wall. A panel came loose and John removed it, quickly propping it at his feet. Inside the wall was a simple shelf made out of reinforced wood, holding a set of clothing, a rather large warhammer strapped to the wall beside it.

  


The dark blue and grey of the two-pieced suit were relatively simple compared to most hero ensembles depicted in the comics John liked to read, the sweeping parallel lines of Heir’s symbol only passing over each arm, rather than front and center on the chest. The lightweight kevlar cloth lining and the thicker body-molded kevlar on weak points were additions made more so his dad wouldn’t worry, and less for necessity. A criminal had yet to match Heir let alone harm him, but John wore the bulletproof clothing anyway to reassure his father. The hood was admittedly pretty cool, though, not that it stayed up with all the flying and wind that blew around him. Removing them from their resting place on the shelf, he folded the clothes over his arm before pulling out the rest of his ensemble: leather boots and gloves, high-hard steel bracers, a simple nylon face mask, and a belt with his crest etched into the metal. He left his hammer, Casey, resting beside the shelf, as she would be the last thing he needed to strap on to complete his ensemble.

Setting to work on swapping regular, civilian clothes for the costume of a superhero, John began donning the uniform that marked his nightly transition from nerdy high schooler into the superhero known as Heir. He was looking forward to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SM: And there you have it! John is a superhero and Karkat is the new kid in class. Surprised? John’s origin story will be explained all in due time (and by that I mean probably not for another twenty chapters). Be sure to check out our tumblr at [**realmenweartights.tumblr.com**](http://realmenweartights.tumblr.com/). As soon as this chapter is uploaded here, I’m going to be zipping over to the tumblr to upload a **NSFW** anatomy study of John so that you can check out his superhero physique. And dick. You can totally check out his dick (I highly recommend it. Unf).  
>  I’ll also be uploading a little background info on how troll society came to be enmeshed with human society in a little bit. And, as always, the high-res versions of all the pics in the chapter will be posted, as well. I highly suggest looking at those, because they're of a much higher quality than what these re-sized versions show. Do yourself a favor and check it out!
> 
> See you next time~
> 
> Chief Writer - Bananaramses  
> Plot/Editor - SergeantMeow  
> Illustrator - Panicismyrain


	3. In Which John Bakes

John felt weightless as he soared about the city streets, gliding through the sky as if it were as natural as breathing. Patrolling the city and searching for crime had already taken up half of his night, and the teen had little to show for it. Uneventful nights like this one were admittedly boring, but he would always take a boring night over having his city be in disarray. He kept his eyes fixed on the roads below him as he flew by, searching the dark alleyways and focusing more attention on the areas where he knew illegal activity was more likely to occur. Seattle was beautiful from this high up at night, but you had to keep an eye open in order to spot trouble. However, scanning the cityscape for anything that stood out was not entirely necessary, really, as most of the time the wind’s current seemed to carry him to where he was needed, which was useful; if he’d had super-hearing or supervision it would be another story entirely, but without those things, John had to rely on his connection to the currents around him to be his eyes and ears. He trusted the wind to guide him, and it had yet to ever steer him wrong.

There was plenty of give and take in his relationship with the wind, actually. While he could bend it to his will, manipulate it, and use it to benefit him in any given situation, in a way it exerted control over him. Oftentimes the wind felt like it complied to his pull rather than submitted, aiding him as if it had its own agenda, its own purpose for him. It was, simply put, alive, as it kept him flying safely high above the ground, fluttering gusts seeming to laugh as he rolled and somersaulted to pass the time. As always, though, the night would not remain uneventful. John was halfway through his rounds when he felt the wind pull him into a dive. Twisting gracefully around skyscrapers and tall buildings, John gave in to the pull and descended to the city streets.

The first thing he noticed as his eyes scanned the street below him was that there appeared to be three men against one. Three individuals were circling another on the ground in a scene that John had at this point become familiar with. Judging from the posture of the three aggressors, it was most likely a mugging that had turned bad, probably when the guy had refused to give up his wallet for his well-being. As John swooped low to the ground and landed silently in a shadowed blind spot, he mentally sighed. These were probably not professionals by any definition, just desperate people trying to scrape by through whatever means possible. On any other day, in a different situation, he would want to help them however he could. As soon as they turned to crime and looked to inflict suffering on others, though, he was obligated to show them that it was not okay. Unfortunately, it was something he was having to do more often than he would have ever wanted.

He flipped up his hood before clearing his throat loudly, stepping into view. Usually that was the cue for fear to flare in the criminals’ eyes, followed shortly by them turning tail and running like hell. These guys missed their cue. Apparently, this trio had not gotten the memo that Heir was a notorious ass-kicker of those who refused to be willingly arrested. Three bodies all turned towards him, each hardset face shaded with sudden alarm as they clearly recognized him. The civilian took advantage of the opportunity John had presented to crawl to the nearest wall, using it as support to slowly stand. John waited for him to shuffle along until he was safely tucked behind a dumpster, all the while sizing the three men in front of him up.

“I am going to give you a chance to do the right thing here,” John started, reciting the standard lines he would offer deliver when those he confronted went wide-eyed and terrified. “Turn yourselves in and nobody gets—” 

The shot was fired, practiced enough to be aimed confidently in a split-second and professional enough that any fear the shooter possessed didn’t cause the gun to waver or the bullet to stray from its path. The wind howled, picking up violently around John as it halted the trajectile an inch from the center of his forehead. With a flick of his eyes, he spun it down so he could see, frowning as he examined the small piece of lead that had been intended for him, before turning his attention on the man still holding out the pistol. John guessed he had been wrong about these guys beating the other out of desperation, because if you had enough to buy a gun, you had enough to eat. Any sympathy he may have had vanished as he took a step forward, the spent bullet dropping to the ground. “Rude.”

  


The trigger-happy one decided that he would try again, his now visibly shaking hand causing the shot to be too wide. Even though it would have missed, John made a point to bend its path, burying it harmlessly into the ground with a flick of the wrist. Staring at the group emotionlessly, he took another firm step forward. Beginning to get desperate, the largest of the group decided to rush forward in an attempt to best him physically. That was a mistake.

John ducked easily under the first few punches, swaying out of the man’s reach with minimal effort. The guy had a clear size advantage over the teenager, which was probably all the reasoning he needed for an attempt at brawling with a known hero. The punches had weight behind them, that much John could tell. If the blows connected they would undoubtedly be powerful, but John was trained far beyond the average person, and by a man who was anything but an average trainer. This guy was ballsy, yes, but he was too slow for John to consider his attempts to hit him any kind of a challenge.

Deciding not to draw things out for too long, John ducked behind an over extended swing and pushed a burst of wind to the backs of the man’s knees. His opponent went down before he even had time to notice that the hero was no longer in front of him, toppling onto all-fours. To assure he wouldn’t be getting back up anytime soon, John gave him a swift kick to the back of the head, making sure to hold back enough so that it was just enough to knock the guy out.

With two of his rounds spent and one comrade down, the man with the gun decided to just start firing wildly in an attempt to catch John with at least one of his remaining bullets. John sensed his intentions before the first bullet left the barrel, his feet instinctively lifting off the ground for better maneuverability. Spinning to face forward while weaving to the side, the first shot was effortlessly avoided. The next had less of a sure target, John’s movements too quick for the gunman to track. Dancing around the remaining shots that rang out in sudden succession, John drew nearer to his opponent, sending a call to the wind to catch the bullets as they flew past him in order to prevent any unnecessary collateral damage. When John’s feet touched the ground again, he was standing right in front of the gunman’s barrel, the only thing greeting him the desperate click of the firing pin hitting nothing as the trigger was continuously depressed, the shooter desperately trying to conjure more rounds from his exhausted magazine.

Having had enough of this guy, John formed a concentrated ball of wind in his palm and slammed it into the gunman’s chest, sending him flying back into the alley wall. He dropped to the ground, crumpling into a heap as he was knocked instantly unconscious.

  


Frowning, John kicked the now useless gun against the wall and gave the man one last, disgruntled look, the expression hidden behind his mask. People who were willing to fire a weapon at someone as easily as that gunman had didn’t deserve any of his sympathy, regardless of who the target was. With two down, John turned to face the last member of the trio. He hadn’t moved in all of the half a minute it had taken John to dismantle both of his friends, rooted to the spot in awe and terror at John’s display. That didn’t stop him from gripping a knife in his hand, however.

“Like I was saying before your friend interrupted, if you give up, you don’t have to get hurt. It would have saved them quite the headache if they had minded their manners and listened.” The hand which held his knife shook violently, his knees rattling yet still managing to hold him up. John held up his hands in a placating gesture and began walking forward. 

“So, are you going to listen, or do something stupid?” The man answered as he dropped his weapon in fear, turning to make a break for it down the narrow alleyway. “Hey, running was not an option!” Balling up his fist and then releasing it in the direction of the mugger, a gale force wind was sent barreling down the alley with the force of a hurricane. It impacted against the runner’s back moments later, lifting him off his feet and throwing him a good five feet before pinning him against the ground.

John took his time strolling over to the downed mugger, sighing when he got next to him as he kneeled down to examine the already unconscious man. “All you had to do was listen. It’s not that hard.”

Satisfied that all was right and that he had accounted for all threats, John collected the three men and dragged them all to the dumpster and secured their hands with a few pairs of the plastic handcuffs that he always kept handy in one of his pouches, opening the lid and shoving them in unceremoniously. While they were probably not going to be getting up anytime soon, John figured the extra precaution was necessary for the victim’s safety. 

Someone in the area had already called the police, apparently, probably because of all the gunshots. John could hear the sirens drawing nearer. Just to be sure they had the right location, John searched through the pockets of the muggers until he found a phone, and then made the call to the nearest police station, tipping them off on how many assailants they could expect to bring in and the nature of the crime.

It took a good while to convince the victim to wait for the cops to get there, since without him to disclose the events as they happened and to press charges, the guys who attacked him would have to be let go. The man was running too high on adrenaline as he hovered close beside John, yapping away at how exciting it had been to see Heir in action, that it had been just like a movie, and that he had been a fan of the hero since his debut. It made John uncomfortable to stick around someone offering so much praise, so he floated off the ground, causing the main to pause and gaze up at him with awe. 

“Wait here for the police. I’ll be close by. Stay safe.” John took off without waiting for a response, heading for a nearby rooftop. Sitting there for a few minutes and listening to the sirens drawing nearer, he reviewed his last performance to search for any flaws he might have made, which movements could have been made quicker, what unnecessary time had been wasted, and how he could further minimize damages in the future.

  


When the squad car got to the alleyway, the victim waved them down. That was John’s cue to take off, as the night was still young and there were always more baddies.

///

It was three in the morning by the time John flew into his open window, exhausted from the night of heroics. Things had picked up significantly after that initial assault, which meant whipping around the city as quickly as the wind would take him in order to stop numerous petty crimes. There hadn’t been many more instances that had required him to knock out his opponents, but the last of the night had gotten slightly bloody. While nothing very significant had happened, he was still left with a body screaming for rest.

During the summer months he had been able to stay out until dawn, not having to wake up early in order to go to school. The sudden adjustment of his schedule was a shock to his system after so many weeks of late nights and late mornings. It was a good thing that his body functioned differently than most people, only requiring a few hours of rest in order to fully recuperate. If it wasn’t as weird as it was, he would never be able to sustain the lifestyle he lived. With his dad’s insisting on him attending school despite how John would become a full time hero upon his graduation, he would have had to be a weekend hero or have a much earlier curfew. 

Stripping off Heir’s costume, John reminded himself that he would have to wash it tomorrow to get the blood off. It wasn’t his own blood—it hardly ever was—but instead came from a man who had insisted on not staying down. One precise punch to the jaw had been enough to send the man toppling over, one tooth less than a full set. John sighed, continuing to pull off and examine each piece of clothing for potential tears and stains he’d have to clean. After safely tucking the clothes plus Casey back onto their shelves, replacing the panel, and re-hanging the poster, John decided that he would take a shower in the morning. Despite the sticky feeling of dry sweat over his body, he chose to rest now since he would be up in a few hours anyways.

John slipped into a pair of boxers before shuffling into his bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. Looking into the tired eyes of his reflection, John felt that he should still be out there, fighting crime in tandem with the city’s police force. Anyone who knew anything about Heir would soon catch on to his limited patrol time, and adjust their plans accordingly. Every year, the more intelligent criminals would plan their illegal activity for after three, in the short span before dawn. Every year, the police would focus on sending more squad cars out during that time. John wanted to be able to stop things, to prevent unnecessary casualties with the strange powers he had been born with, but he knew that he couldn’t. Sometimes that thought drove him crazy.

///

The morning routine was easier to fall into after the third day. The blaring of his alarm clock woke John up on time and his dad knocked on his door only a few minutes later to make sure he was awake; there wouldn’t be any repeat of yesterday’s shenanigans. John sighed as he got out of bed and pulled on some workout pants, heading out of his room and down to the basement. Before taking a well-deserved shower and treating his costume to a good scrubbing, there was a father-son tradition he had to get through.

Their basement was large, bigger than any other John had seen in his rare instances of watching T.V., though it’d always seemed pretty normal to him since he’d been going down there nearly every morning for the past decade. The floor consisted of one gigantic room, with only a small washroom breaking up the otherwise open square. A third of the room was taken up by various exercise equipment, including John’s treadmill and various weight sets, as well as several strategically placed training dummies. In one corner of the room hung his favorite punching bag, its surface patchworked from all the times he’d had to repair it after accidentally punching holes in its surface. The rest of the room was bare, the floor covered in matted panels and the walls covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It was in this part of the room that John went to stand.

His dad greeted him with a nod, remaining silent as John walked to his place beside him as they stared into the mirrors across the room at their own reflections. John fell into familiar steps as he was led through a t’ai chi routine, finding himself rather glad that there was only enough time to stretch before they both had to get ready for the day. Now that the summer break had ended, John could look forward to evenings of martial arts training, swimming, and the occasional run, rather than early morning sparring sessions. He couldn’t speak for his dad, but he much preferred the gentle breathing exercises and the flowing postures of t’ai chi routines rather than getting smacked around by an ex-marine first thing in the morning. With the way that his dad manhandled him every time they trained, it was still hard to imagine that his dad was just a normal person, albeit one that was highly disciplined and trained.

John gave out a relaxed sigh as his muscles seemed to unwind, the stretching feeling nice as he shifted fluidly from one pose to the next. In the mirror opposite him, his dad made the same movements, their routine synchronized perfectly.

  


Once the exercise was over, both father and son headed upstairs to take care of the next step of their morning routines. While breakfast was cooking, John finally got to enjoy his much needed shower. A good deal of time was invested in scrubbing tiny mats from his hair as he tried not to think about the red-tinted water running down the drain. After washing the scent of blood and sweat from his body, John dried off and headed back to his room. After pulling on a shirt and some shorts, John set about removing Heir’s clothes from their hiding place to get to work on washing the stains out of the fabric. It was a process that took a fair deal of time as it all had to be done by hand, but such was the hassle about using finicky materials to construct something that would put up with his night life. The material had specific requirements to meet when trying to clean it, like using special products, never introducing it to hot water, and absolutely never just tossing it in a machine, as convenient as that would be. By the time he had finished hanging the costume inside-out to dry, his dad was calling him down for breakfast.

John sat down to a vegetable and egg-white omelet, toast, and a bowl of fruit salad, thanking his dad before getting started. As usual, it didn’t take long before his plates were clean or for his dad to match his speed and finish his own meal. Once the dishes were taken care of, John shot upstairs to grab his bag before returning back down to leave. Just like the day before last, his dad waiting for him, donning that usual white hat that matched his shirt with keys already in his hand. As usual, they headed out the door early, which meant John would have plenty of time before his first class of the day to re-review his homework.

Once they were in the car and on the road, John was prompted with an entirely expected question. “How did last night go?” It was something John was asked nearly every day, a casual inquiry with the ever present edge of worry. In the first few months of being Heir, John’s dad had come along with him to make sure his pre-teen son could handle himself alone on the dark streets of the city. After he was deemed ready to go solo, it had been a year until his dad has stopped waiting up for him at night to ask him that very question. If his dad did still wait up for the sound of his window closing, he never made it known that he did.

“The usual, really,” John stated, before he filled the other in on the night’s highlights, those highlights being a handful of petty crimes he had stopped while spending most of the time flying around the city. As was their routine, he went on to give the details of instances where the people he caught had put up resistance, going over when he had to take action and what he had done. His father listened quietly, waiting for pauses to offer suggestions in how he could have better handled each scenario. As annoying as the process was, the review helped by offering another opinion besides his own on how he could improve his performance. Minimizing unnecessary movements while still making a point to establish himself as beyond human was a goal John was still trying to work towards, after all. His dad had always told him that, while he didn’t want John to hurt people needlessly, he wanted Heir to be a reason for people to avoid criminal activities in the first place. It was something they both wanted to accomplish with John’s hero persona.

After a few minutes, John was dropped off with the customary warning to not stand out too much. Once he had rolled his eyes and promised not to reveal his secret identity on a whim, they parted ways. He sighed, heading inside the relatively empty school, yawning and shuffling his feet like the students he passed. The familiar actions of the morning, which could almost be considered normal for an average teenager, had added up into something completely mundane for John. When he spent the nights fighting crime, his contrasting daily endeavors made him feel pretty normal. Almost as much as they made him feel he was living a lie.

After stopping at his locker and shimmying around his books, John went to check if his Biology teacher had unlocked the classroom early. If not, he’d probably head to the library and read ahead in his textbook or something. To his luck, the door was open and upon entering he noticed a particular nubby horned troll resting his head against his desk. He felt his mood lift from a depth he hadn’t realized he had been in until the sudden shift. Overly serious was what he would label his previous mood, he supposed, but the prospect of getting to talk to his newfound friend before class had him forgetting his usual set of worries.

“Good morning, Karkat,” John called, grinning broadly as the troll lifted his head to glare at him. Before Karkat responded, he yawned, rolling his neck to the side until there was an audible crack. Tired eyes regarded John for a long moment as if he was sizing him up.

“You’re going to be a morning person, aren’t you? Here’s something that you should know that will help you on your future endeavors to gather more suitable friends: it is too fucking early to put up with the bag of shit that you seem to lugging around day to day with a smile on your face. Unless you’re here to present me with a very large, very hot cup of coffee — half of which I may decide to hurl in your general direction because your face is just pissing me off to whole new levels of utter rage at the moment — sit down and shut the fuck up before I end you. This is our present scenario, John. I suggest you tread carefully.” 

John laughed, already beginning to grow fond of Karkat’s particularly charming language. He was too verbose in his way of speaking, rattling off elaborate description even when it seemed that he could hardly keep his eyes open. John sat down in his seat, leaning forward when Karkat put his head back down. “If you’re not much for mornings, why are you here so early?”

“Crabdad thinks that I need to be up and ready for school at the crack of dawn and insists on screeching until I am in position to be lovingly shoved out the front door in an embarrassing state of dress. I don’t know where he picked up this idea or from whom, but if I ever find out they will rue the day they interrupted my sleep.” There was more to that, but the words were lost in mumbles smothered against his arm. Karkat seemed to get that his words were becoming incoherent because he turned his head to the side. “To reiterate my previous statement, cease flapping your lips and let me rest. Talk to me when I’m not half-asleep.”

“Okay,” John laughed, finding even the brief interaction enough to satisfy him for the time being. He unzipped his backpack, withdrawing his textbook before turning his attention briefly back to Karkat. “I’ll talk to you at lunch, then.”

///

John’s mood was sky high as he walked back to his first period classroom after school for Biology Club. As Karkat had suggested after he had grumbled about sleep deprivation, the two did talk later. They had met up at lunch underneath what John now sort of considered to be their tree. They had talked about Karkat’s old school and the handful of friends he could tolerate, which classes they were most looking forward to and the ones that they were dreading, and touched on John’s rather packed schedule. Obviously skipping over the acts of heroism at night, John had briefly summarized that keeping up with AP classes, his athletics training, and ‘volunteering’ left him with little free time. It had been enough for Karkat to accept, commenting that up until his move he had two jobs so they both understood the challenges of keeping up with their busy lives. It meant Karkat wasn’t expecting the usual after-school visits or activities other teenagers sought out. The troll was open to being a school-friend, and that was just what John was hoping for.

When he walked through the door of the familiar classroom, John noticed that there were a few students from his Biology block sitting together. The rest of the club members were upper and lower classmen who he didn’t recognize, already settling to chat amongst their respective groupings. John scanned their faces, pausing when his eyes fell on someone familiar sitting in the back row by himself. John made a beeline straight over to the troll, beaming. It looked like he was going to get to see Karkat after school after all.

“Fancy seeing you here,” John commented as smoothly as he could, receiving a scoff for all his efforts as John shifted his backpack on his shoulder. Karkat looked up, lips twitching but stubbornly set in a bored frown. “Mind if I sit with you?” John preemptively dropped his bag beside the desk, looking down at Karkat for the eventual permission he was sure he’d get.

“Why on Earth would I permit you the luxury of such exceedingly in-demand company? It’s not as though we’ve spent nearly every free moment outside of class infringing on each other’s personal space, gabbing on like a couple of prepubescent gossips with a mile-long list of people to bitch about and nothing but fucking time. Oh, wait, that’s exactly what we’ve done. Stop standing there like a barkbeast waiting for its handler’s command and sit down before I change my mind.” When Karkat finished his rant, his frown broke momentarily into a crooked smile. It hung there for a second before it fell along with his gaze, which settled back on the textbook resting on his desk.

John chuckled, sliding into the desk beside Karkat’s and scanning over the page the troll was reading. It looked like he wasn’t the only one who read ahead, since the troll was well into the third chapter. “I take it you never just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” Karkat just shrugged, his eyes not leaving the page in front of him. “So, you like biology too, then?”

“Your desperation and blatant need for attention is borderline pitiful,” the troll snapped, shutting his book to focus on replying. “I guess I like biology. I’m mainly interested in learning more about genetics, like how and why certain genes are inherited, and biological systems. Not so much looking forward to the cutting things open and poking at their insides aspect. Also, engaging in after school activities regarding one of my more tolerable classes is at least better than going home to Crabdad throwing food he thinks is nutritious in my general direction for dinner.”

“Hehe, good answer.” A tilt of Karkat’s head prompted John to start mentally summarizing his own interest in the subject. As he considered the reasons for his own interest in Biology, his eyes took in the delicate arc of Karkat’s raised eyebrow as he waited for John’s response to his unasked question, and the way that his eyes betrayed the troll’s interest despite the bored look he was plastering on his face. John really felt like he was getting used to the troll’s nonverbal cues, just as he was coming to realize how much of what Karkat said had no actual heat behind the words. 

“I like Bio because it really makes you appreciate everything around you and, well, _in_ you. You get to learn about the amazing complexity of life, how things have come to function, and how living organisms interact with their environment. I think that’s pretty awesome.”

Karkat looked at him for a moment, his face a bit more relaxed as the corners of his mouth turned ever-so-slightly and he started smiling a bit more openly. He rested his chin on the knuckles of his right hand, regarding John thoughtfully. “Contrary to your appearance, you really do honestly embrace your inner nerd. I’m starting to see why Kanaya mentioned you as being labeled slightly unapproachable: you’re a regular golden child. If not for your social retardation you’d be well on your way to being pretty perfect, wouldn’t you?”

“Karkat, I would pretend to be shocked at that accusation if it weren’t so obvious. Clearly I am just fishing for friendship experience in order to complete my life checklist and ascend the echeladder of top high school kid. Except not, because I’m just a normal, studious swim team member who happens to be as busy as he is nerdy.” John didn’t mention how school had never challenged him enough to make him struggle through his work or study for exams. He’d always chalked that up to just another weird quirk of his. “So, other than guessing you’re into Biology, are there any interests you have that you’re more sure of liking?”

Karkat shrugged his shoulders before running through a few vague points. “Some books, movies, and comics, mostly. Work kept me pretty busy.”

“Oh man, comics? Like, hero stuff?” John grinned, leaning forward in his chair. He was excited at the prospect of potentially sharing a common passion with his new friend. In his eagerness, he hadn’t realized how far he had leaned forward until Karkat shifted back, mumbling a complaint about John’s supposed lack of boundaries. Laughing out an apology, John offering Karkat his best goofy grin, which seemed to be enough to warrant an answer from the troll.

“No. I’ve worn superhero-themed clothes for the last two days for shits and giggles, and I gabbed about Heir yesterday like a genuine fangirl because I was actually just bored out of my skull by your presence and he’s a regular topic of choice. Of fucking course I like comic books, John.” 

John blinked and re-examined the white hoodie the troll was wearing, just then noticing a small “The End Is Nigh” underneath the black Rorschach test sprawled across the hoodie’s chest. _Watchmen_. John could appreciate that.

The subject of superheroes, both real and fictional, was a topic John could easily get lost in, in fact. He’d never really expected to find a person who seemed just as eager to discuss imagined worlds as he was. Launching into a discussion he had been waiting to have with someone for years, the two jumped around from talking about big name publishers to debating the usefulness of the newest sidekick to a well known, East Coast hero. They ran through their favourites heroes — Karkat having a soft spot for the Caped Crusader while John stood proudly behind his choice of Captain America — before going over a few graphic novels and comics they enjoyed. For John, having someone to talk to about his largest hobby was the most fun he had had in a very long time. 

Before John realized it, the teacher was interrupting them to hand out an information and sign-up sheet for Biology Club. He blushed in embarrassment, apologizing for not noticing they had started. She smiled at the two of them as other students began filing out of the room. “We started twenty minutes ago. The meeting is over now. I didn’t interrupt you two because you seemed to be getting on so well.” 

John supposed that was the cue for them to leave as well, so after a quick goodbye to the teacher, they headed to their lockers, stopping to wait for each other while they shuffled their books around. With a lot of reluctance, John said goodbye to Karkat a few minutes later with the promise of seeing him tomorrow as they headed out the front entrance to the school. They parted ways, Karkat heading towards the parking lot while John set down on his usual route home. 

A couple of minutes into his walk, a car slowed and pulled up next to him. It was an average-looking car, grey, the kind the city routinely loaned out to trolls with lusii that couldn’t drive. When the passenger side window was rolled down, John found himself looking right at the troll he had just parted with.

“You said you lived close to me. Get in.” It didn’t take any more prompting for John to be opening the door and slipping into the seat beside Karkat, a wide grin on his face.

///

“Later, Karkat!” John chirped as he slipped out of his seat a few minutes after Karkat had picked him up. Most of the car ride had consisted of the troll getting around to saying that, though mornings were off due to the uncertain time at which his custodian tended to throw him out the door, he wouldn’t mind if maybe John wanted a ride home from school every day. Granted, there were a couple hundred more words to his speech, but that had been the basics of the long-winded spiel. Of course, John had agreed immediately, a reaction that caused Karkat to mutter an insult under his breath and grin ever so slightly.

John waved as he walked backwards up the steps to his front door, Karkat offering a very slight flick of his hand in response before pulling away. As he got inside and headed straight to the kitchen for his usual after-school snack, John decided that it had really turned into one of the best school days he had had in a long time. It was rare for him to feel normal and relatable to his peers, but chatting with Karkat seemed to really do the trick. 

After opening the fridge to retrieve some deli meat and veggies, John got to work making a sandwich. It vanished as quickly as he had slapped it together, appeasing his stomach for the time being. John got to work on wiping down the kitchen counters, letting his thoughts wander. A lot of people would have probably found him too desperate to welcome into their circle of friends, but Karkat had accepted him with few complaints. Well, few complaints that he actually meant, anyway. And that meant a lot to John.

Looking around the kitchen and spotting a fruit basket full of apples, John was struck with a sudden idea.

Maybe it would be a good time to welcome his friend to the neighborhood, like his dad had taught him.

///

Karkat was mildly regretting his choice of classes as he furiously scribbled out a misspelled word in his notebook. He glared down at the wild strokes of black ink before sighing, debating on whether he should try to white out his mistake or just start over. After he finished his English assignment, he still had Alternian and Physics to go, because, for some asinine reason, when he had sat down to do his homework, he had decided to do it in completely random order. Why, he didn’t know. It was just adding to the stress that had been mounting ever since Crabdad had forced them to move with no prior planning, which he guessed was insignificant when compared to the stress of his...problem. The legitimate problem that, as far as he had figured, only had two options: either he disclose his issues to someone else, or he’d figure them out on his own. He’d been fighting that literally all his life, and moving to a new location wasn’t doing his worries any good.

Just as Karkat started contemplating the amount of force it would take to jam his pen through his skull and end his homework-related misery forever, he was jerked out of his thoughts by a noise he hadn’t been expecting.

The doorbell rang, prompting Crabdad to almost immediately let out a shrill screech from the other end of the house in response. Karkat waited at his desk, listening for the telltale stomping of his custodian descending the flight of stairs to get to the door. But it never came. The bell rang again a few seconds later and, of course, useless lusus that he was, Crabdad just screeched. It wasn’t even like it was the first time he had ever heard a doorbell, because they sure as hell had one in their last place and that one had been twice as annoying. Maybe the new pitch was bothering him? 

“Dad, get the door! It’s kind of your job, you worthless piece of shit!” Even as Karkat complained, he was hurrying down to the first floor, taking the stairs two at a time and spewing out a colourful string of expletives about his lusus. The bell rang a third time, just as Karkat rounded the corner that led to the front door. “Hold your fucking hoofbeasts, I’m coming!”

As he flung open the door, he already had a grouping of choice curses on the tip of his tongue for whoever had decided to bother them. Regardless of who it was, they were going to receive an earful. As the door swung open wide, the words Karkat had hastily prepared caught in his throat as he tried to comprehend what exactly he was seeing. 

“Hi, Karkat! Welcome to the neighborhood!” The ever cheerful, surprisingly tolerable John Egbert was on his doorstep, characteristically waltzing into his life without notice, showing up completely unannounced. The human looked exactly the same as he had when Karkat dropped him off, stupid smile and all. The actual part that was shocking enough to render Karkat silent was the mitted hands which held up a steaming hot pie.

  


“I know I can’t bake nearly as good as my dad, and he’ll probably show up sometime this week with a cake, but I figured I’d try. Hope you like apple!”

The display in front of him was just so fucking wholesome that Karkat actually found himself a bit speechless. Was he serious? Karkat could only stare, taking in the human boy in front of him. Of all the things he had been expecting when racing down the stairs, this hadn’t even seemed a possibility. It took Karkat’s brain a few awkward moments to sort through his available options, but any snappy retort he was trying to formulate was pushed to the side because John’s hands must have been burning despite the oven mitts, so he held the door open for him to step through. “Come in. Yeah, I do, uh, thanks. I really wasn’t expecting something like this, in case you couldn’t tell by the absence of my usual stunning control over the English language. I actually should have guessed you’d be the type to pull something like this.”

John laughed as he usually did, deep and loud while somehow managing to not cross the line into obnoxious, as he stepped inside and slipped the sandals off of his feet. The troll stared at John’s feet for a moment in curiosity, not having really heard of that particular human custom before. Looking back up into John’s face, Karkat didn’t know what exactly the protocol was when someone who was just beginning to be a pretty-okay friend came over with food. Did he take the pie, or something? Did he give John a tour? Offer him a beverage refreshment? John, of course, was spectacularly fucking useless and offered him no hints as to proper social protocol, but Karkat hadn’t counted on any help from there.

Thinking over what he’d just considered, Karkat internally cursed at himself for being a dumbass, because of course he wasn’t expected to offer to take the burning hot dish from his guest’s hands. That would be stupid, and painful. Sometimes he seriously questioned his own thought processes. 

“Is your lusus around? There’s plenty of this to go around,” John asked, emphasizing his point by waving the steaming pie around in the air like a fucking moron.

Karkat lead John from the entryway into the kitchen, thankful that Crabdad had yet to attempt a meal that night. “The last thing he needs is to be rewarded with baked goods for his incompetence.” Despite saying that, the troll would make sure his lusus knew that there was a slice or two for him once John left. He knew he was rapidly outgrowing the need for a custodian and soon he would have to part with the hideous crab monster of a parent, and, despite how awful he was at caring for an opinionated young adult, his lusus had done a pretty good job when he was young. Crabdad might even get to be assigned another young troll to take care of before he was retired; it would probably make him happy to coddle and fuss over someone again without resistance. 

John set the pie down on the kitchen counter, taking off his oven mitts and tossing them next to the pie. “Oh. Do you want to eat this now, or should I go? You probably haven’t had dinner, right? One of the worst things my dad says you can do is ruin your dinner with unnecessary sweets. Which is kind of ironic, I guess, since he makes so many cakes and things all the time and then expects I-don’t-know-what from me, because he knows I don’t eat a lot of sweets most of the time, and he still— I’m rambling, aren’t I?” John asked, switching from flying high on cloud nine to worry in a heartbeat. 

Karkat rolled his eyes, giving John a very unimpressed stare. It had only been two days since they’d become acquainted, but Karkat had decided he was going to make it very clear that, despite his words and generally prickly disposition, he could tolerate a lot of bullshit before honestly being pissed off. John didn’t need to second guess himself like he was doing.

“I invited you in, didn’t I? Also, I’ve been basking in the aroma of that thing for the last few minutes, so of course we’re going to eat it. Assuming, that is, that you don’t have another riveting anecdote to tell me about the time that your parental unit showed his affection for you by showering you with a fuckheap of baked goods? I thought so.” 

With his point made, Karkat set to work grabbing plates, forks, and a large knife from one of the kitchen’s drawers. Handing the knife to John, Karkat watched in barely-hidden amusement as the teen started cutting. John’s idea of portioning the pie was giving each of them a good fifth each, apparently, though Karkat wasn’t complaining because the idea of grabbing a second slice and calling it dinner was sounding more and more appealing the longer he stood there and had to smell that. If the pie tasted half as good as it smelled, then he might be dropping hints for John to bake more often, in fact.

Waiting impatiently as John shifted the slices from the tin to the plates, Karkat scooped a forkful of pie up as soon as it was placed in front of him, John watching him with a nervous smile. John was acting like he had something to be nervous about, so Karkat absently wondered if he should’ve brace himself for the worst when his mouth closed around the first bite. Then he realized he should have prepared himself for the best. 

Karkat’s mouth started to fall open in awe before he shut it with a snap, wanting to savor every second that the pie was on his tongue. His mind instantly drew parallels to the diner scene in _When Harry Met Sally_ , and Karkat was sorely tempted to mimic that scene and start clenching the table and moaning in ecstasy. Everything about the pie was perfect, from the butteriness of the still hot crust to the way that delicate motes of cinnamon would burst and fill his mouth with sweetness whenever he pushed his tongue into the gooey center of the morsel. The apples themselves were perfectly tender, and juicy in a way that made him salivate with every bite. 

Seeing John’s anxious, expectant look, Karkat lowered the fork from his face and stared at John with wide eyes. “Oh my fucking — no, okay, John, I think I may have existed to eat this goddamn amazing pie. It is life-fulfillment-good. You have my full consent to make this again, regularly.”

  


John’s cheeks darkened as he grinned sheepishly. “It’s my dad’s recipe, I just followed it. I’m glad you like it, though.” John got to work on his own piece, nodding to himself as he took his first bite. “It may not look as nice, but it’s pretty close in taste.”

Karkat took another bite. “Holy shit, John. Can I human-marry you? I will be the breadwinner, and you will stay in the kitchen all day and make pies. It will be a loveless marriage, but we will work through our issues over hot pie and make it work.” 

John snorted in response, and they both set to work on the rest of their slices. The next few minutes were spent in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the clinking of fork against plate. It wasn’t long before they were both chewing their final mouthful, Karkat desperately trying to resist the urge to start licking the remnants off his plate. Reaching over to the remaining pie in the tin, Karkat scooped some of the crust into his hand, deciding that dinner was definitely going to be another slice of that. That left one piece for Crabdad and then one for lunch, if he could hide it well enough.

“Want to stay for a bit? I can lend you that comic I was talking about while we were neglecting club activities.” John enthusiastically agreed, and followed closely behind Karkat as they deposited their plates in the sink and the troll lead the way up the stairs and to his room. 

As Karkat entered, he tried to act as casually as was possible as he lazily swept a hand out as an introduction to his domicile. It wasn’t like a lot of people had ever been in his room before, so as John took everything in for the first time, the troll shifted uncomfortably where he stood.

  


While John glanced around in unabashed curiosity, Karkat decided to occupy himself by heading over to the large tank on top of a rolling stand. It was enormous, considering there was only a single goldfish in all that water, though Karkat had filled up space within the aquarium with random shit he threw his money at for no explainable reason. There was a huge castle, a bubbling treasure chest, a plastic scuba guy, a veritable forest of plants, a sunken ship, and pretty much every useless aquarium accessory he could get his hands on. The tank’s single resident was a husky veiltail goldfish. Husky being a polite word for fucking gigantic.

“That...okay. That is one huge goldfish,” John observed in actual surprise, just as Karkat was lifting the lid on the tank and offering the crumbs of pie crust he had collected for his fish. Karkat paused after he dropped in a sizable piece, observing the pretty fucking humongous goldfish do a wriggling little jig at the water’s surface.

“Yes, well, this is Sebastian. He made the life decision that he’d rather be full than have friends and devoured any companion I ever attempted to introduce to him, in the glorious name of gluttony. Isn’t that right, Sebastian?” Karkat cooed fondly, tapping softly on the tank’s glass. “Just look at this smug bastard, eating his pie crust. He is so proud of his majestic girth and being fancy as shit that he couldn’t care less about having no other fish in there with him. I just enable him because I have a problem; eating makes him happy, and I am a weak owner who only wants to give him what he wants. Even if he did have companions, he’d make short work of them, as he has demonstrated. I sometimes kid myself into believing he won’t eat the next one, but the next day, hey, were did Ursala go? Right into the gaping cavern that is his mouth.”

  


As Karkat finished with feeding the few small pieces of crust to the gluttonous monster he had nurtured and went about making sure the tank was operating at optimum efficiency, John continued to look around his room. The troll heard John’s feet stop after slowly walking around for a minute, absently making a comment more to himself than to Karkat. “Huh, I do not remember that.”

“What are you talking about?” Karkat questioned, turning to see John observing the most recently purchased addition to his rather impressive poster collection. There, hung carefully on his wall, was a to-scale image of Heir cut just above the hips, the hero rendered confidently holding his trademark warhammer over his shoulders as if it weighed nothing at all. A single street light illuminated the form that stood casually staring at the camera, and a smirk was just visible under the thin face mask. There had been some obvious artistic liberty taken on depicting the teenage hero in the broad shoulders and additional muscle tone, but it was still the best depiction of Heir that Karkat had found, and he could appreciate the added efforts that had gone into manipulating the original photo for extra appeal. He imagined that in a year or two, the real Heir would most likely look just like the one on his poster.

  


John turned, looking rather flustered. “I don’t remember seeing that at the comic book store I go to, I mean.” Karkat nodded, making a mental note to ask John about the store he was talking about the next time he ran out of reading material.

“Oh. Yeah, I don’t know how legit it is, honestly. It’s not like Heir is property of any publishing company, so it really is random what you find and what kind of quality you’ll get when looking for stuff with his face on it. I got that off some guy selling them on the streetcorner. No clue who designed or printed it, but it doesn’t really matter.”

Karkat recalled the surprising find he had made on his last day of living in the city. The print had been front and center in a street stall between a small selection of Heir-themed posters which were all now safely tucked away inside his closet. The vendor, who avidly bragged about dealing strictly in real super hero memorabilia, had insisted that he always knew the real thing when he saw it as he rung Karkat through. Collector items, eventually, because that boy was going to be something amazing. Despite his usual aversion to engaging in small talk with strangers, Karkat had invested a good hour just listening to what the man had to say about the hero who had saved his life.

“You know, I really don’t think this is a real picture of Heir,” John commented eventually, snapping Karkat out of his memory. Hands on his hips, the teen was giving the poster such a seriously scrutinizing look that Karkat couldn’t help but laugh. The smile broke out over his lips, unable to stay down as John struggled between expressing confusion and amusement at Karkat’s sniggering.

“Inform the fucking media, John Egbert has spotted the devious touch of photoshop and will not rest until the world knows the lie that is this slanderous misrepresentation of our city’s beloved hero. No shit that isn’t really all Heir. You think he’d pose for a publicity shot like that? And do you actually believe someone our age could put on muscle like that? I mean, he’s pretty damn close, at least from what I could gather in the brief period of seeing him, but not quite there yet.”

John shrugged, glancing at the picture a final time before thoughtfully regarding Karkat. “You really like Heir, huh? I guess that makes sense since he saved you.”

“That’s a part of it, of course. I’d be lying if my obvious fanboying didn’t increase tenfold after he scooped me up as if I were a damsel in distress. I liked Heir before that, though. He is very much the self-sacrificing, courageous person that the cliché hero is, which isn’t bad, just sort of awe-inspiring in this day and age. Every night, almost without fail, he’s out there just to protect everyone -- not looking for any financial compensation, no desire for the spotlight, not just trying to get his rocks off by beating up people, and engaging in none of the shit that you hear about some heroes pulling now. While most people his age are worrying about tests and social drama and who is dating who, he’s doing what he can with the gift he’s been given. He’s just always understood what it means to be a hero and protector of the people, something he hasn’t changed since he started out as little more than a kid. Do you remember how young he was when he first showed up? How can I not admire someone around my age who is so noble that he’ll literally run into a burning building for complete strangers? Someone who only ever makes arrests, never abusing what he has, even when he has every power to make people beg for mercy? And yeah, someone who jump down in the middle of a fucking ten man gun fight to save one person? Heir is a hero, the kind of righteous one you read in comic books. I’m grateful that a person like that exists, even if I was only able to meet him briefly.”

It was only after he finished that Karkat grasped just how much he had gone on, and his cheeks darkened a bit as he felt the blood rushing to his face. That was hands-down the most he had ever spoken to the other boy in one go, and he hadn’t even remembered to add any of his characteristic sass to the speech, so caught up in his feelings for Heir. Predictably, John was staring at him, though he maintained an interested look. An apology was poised on the troll’s tongue when John spoke up. 

“You know, I think Heir would be really happy to hear that, Karkat.” Words that could have been condescending were said with such utter conviction that the troll was a bit taken aback. Just as he was about to end the topic with a curt reply, John’s head snapped up to the clock on his wall. “Oh, shoot! My dad is going to be home any minute! I have to go. Sorry, Karkat.”

Karkat walked John downstairs to the door, seeing the strain in his friend’s face that told him how just how stressed for time he was. He was practically twitching, body language obviously hinting that he planned on running the few blocks that separated their houses. Regardless, the teen waited for Karkat to retrieve his oven mitts from the kitchen and to offer up a few parting words before he headed home. “Thanks for the pie, really, John. No one has ever made me anything, let alone anything that fucking delicious. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, thanks for, uh, inviting me in! I’ll see you later, Karkat.” Once he was outside, John turned heel and actually sprinted down the street, rounding the corner in a matter of seconds. Considering how fast he’d booked it, there was apparently significant need for him to be home when his father returned from work. The troll lingered at his door, wondering what that was all about, though decided his money was on the classic overprotective-parent-sheltering-their-gifted-child.

Closing the door behind him with his foot, Karkat headed back to his room, deciding that he’d wait a bit until having his second slice of homemade pie with the hope that Crabdad wouldn’t just give into temptation and stuff the rest of the thing in his mouth if he found it. Fatass lusus. 

Eyes were once again drawn to the poster of the superhero hanging on the wall, and he made his way over until he stood right in front of it. Lifting a hand, he traced a finger over the curve of the cheek, following the line down the strong jaw.

  


Despite how he found his recent admissions to John in regards to Heir a bit embarrassing, Karkat really was thankful for what the hero had done for him. Up until a week ago, his life had been filled with uncertainty. Up until a week ago, he had seen the world in such a negative light, assured that there was no real room for someone like him in modern society. Up until a week ago, he had never realized he had a third option in his life: he could embrace his problem, rather than run from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Prologue
> 
> SM: Alright, gang. That’s the end of the prologue! The next chapter takes place after a bit of a timeskip, so be aware of that. Heir sure kicks ass, huh? Also, I fucking love that goldfish. Karkat taking care of fat animals is precious. As usual, make sure you stop by [ **our tumblr** ](http://realmenweartights.tumblr.com/) to get behind-the-scenes info, full-res pictures of everything in the story, exclusive pictures not shown in the story, and even some NSFW! Some of the things talked about in this chapter, such as Crabdad retiring, might not make much sense unless you’re following along with the blog. We’re treating it like a companion aide to supplement the AU experience, so make sure you’re getting the full worth from your read and follow along!
> 
> See you later!
> 
> P.S. If you have no idea what Karkat was thinking when he referenced _When Harry Met Sally_ , check out this youtube clip [**here**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZluzt3H6tk).
> 
> Chief Writer - Bananaramses  
> Plot/Editor - SergeantMeow  
> Illustrator - Panicismyrain


	4. In Which Heir Discovers He's Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much stuff in this chapter, your head will explode.

  
__  
**18 months later**  
  


/ / /

“I’ll see you after school, son.” John smiled at his dad and gave him a quick nod before he slipped out of the car. The air felt refreshingly cool, the spring breeze carrying floral notes that it had picked up from the blooming trees along the school’s driveway. John smiled at the reminder, as the budding flowers signaled that there were only a few months left before the end of junior year, and he was looking forward to the beginning of summer break and the drastic shift it would have on his schedule: while he would remain vigilant in his duties to serve the city as Heir by spending a greater portion of each day patrolling the streets, there would also be additional time to do what he really wanted. Those brief instances he had away from his training and superhero commitments would be reserved for a single troll who he had met at the start of sophomore year.

John hiked his backpack over his shoulders, shifting the full bag of textbooks in a practiced motion that made it seem as though the weight of it affected him, which, of course, it didn’t. They were nothing compared to the warhammer he strapped on his back nightly, but he was expected to walk alongside every other student his age and complain like any normal teenager would. So he walked with them, blending into the background as he greeted several people he knew on his way to his locker. 

There was something oddly different in the smiling faces of those he passed, of the casual ways they replied to him, almost as if they weren’t actually acknowledging his presence. John couldn’t quite place what the difference was as he scanned each of them quickly, so he decided to shrug it off. More likely than not, he was still too wound up from the previous night of heroics. That happened sometimes when you combined strenuous activities with very little sleep; sometimes you started getting paranoid.

The hallways were crowded for the time of day, with a few too many bright-eyed and eager students milling about, considering it was a Friday morning. There was a buzzing in the air, a foreign quality that John couldn’t shake, and it just made the uncomfortable sense that something wasn’t right grow in the pit of his stomach. Instinctively, John’s guard was up and he pulled ever so slightly on the wind as he passed by a few open windows. The familiarity of his element swirling around him, regardless how gentle he had to keep it, always served to comfort him during times of unease. Times like this.

As he neared his locker, the excess amounts of students seemed to part, allowing him a free path to his locker and giving John ample space to pack away his books. As he glanced down the row of lockers beside him, the crowd drifted out of his field of vision with perfect timing. Thanking the odd luck which seemed to be favoring his whims, John eagerly looked to where he knew his best friend would be loitering and took in the sight of his best friend chatting to another troll. The familiar fluttering of his heart picked up in his chest, and despite how strange the feeling was, he couldn’t keep down a smile from forming on his face. 

The fluttering in his chest was a sensation he had come to associate with Karkat after just a few short months of knowing him. The onset of that sensation had also signaled an abrupt turn in how he saw his friend.

Karkat was leaning against his locker and chatting energetically, and John took a moment to appreciate the mess of black hair, strong shoulders, and long arms emoting animatedly before he let his gaze drift lower. The pants the troll was wearing seemed to fit like a second skin, doing wonders to highlight every perfect curve of his toned butt, the view obstructed only slightly by the hem of a dark hoodie. 

John’s eyes widened in shock when Karat shifted his hips slightly, and John instantly realized that what he had initially figured to be very light, form-fitting material was actually _nothing at all_. Not a pair of ludicrously tight grey sweatpants, not a pair of grey pants created to give the appearance of nudity like some novelty apparel, but actual, honest-to-goodness, nakedness from the waist down.

Dumbfounded wasn’t a strong enough description for the amount of shocked awe John suddenly found himself in.

The teen dropped his bag and ran over to his friend, not caring for a moment that his school supplies had tumbled out of his bag and lay scattered on the floor, or that his locker had been left wide open. The small tendrils of wind he had kept with him for security boosted his strides, bringing him directly behind Karkat in seconds, despite the distance.

Before he opened his mouth to yell in distress, John’s eyes flickered back down for a close up glimpse and he got caught up in staring longer than he had intended. Damn. He hadn’t really expected that baggy jeans were always hiding a such a really superb ass. It took him a few moments of very pointed staring before he snapped out of it and recalled that his best friend and crush was _freaking naked from the waist down in public_. 

“Karkat, _where are your pants?_ ” John mumbled out, interrupting whatever conversation had been taking place between Karkat and the other troll he only vaguely recognized. The stranger all but disappeared into a passing group as Karkat’s attention switched targets. 

John’s words had been muttered much softer than he’d intended and said unintentionally close to Karkat’s ear as he’d leaned forward, his proximity to his friend a result of the speed with which he had zipped over. He should have been shouting and demanding an explanation, but the shock was numbing him, making the experience seem utterly surreal. Instead he found himself considering throwing caution to the wind in favor of reaching out for a chance to touch that exposed flesh, just inches away from him, so close that he Karkat’s unique scent was starting to fill his nostrils. Just as John reluctantly decided that it was his obligation as Karkat’s best friend to make a fuss and not give into his urges, Karkat proceeded to render his mind completely useless by turning around.

“What are you even talking about, John? First thing in the morning and you’re already spouting absolute nonsense. I have a serious question for you: did you happen to hit your head repeatedly as a child for shits and giggles, or are you just doing your best at representing the very bottom of human intelligence?” 

John was too busy letting his eyes travel over every inch Karkat had just offered to formulate some kind of intelligible response. The thought which was most predominate on his mind at that moment was that, taking him in all at once, this was what his best friend would look like throwing on just a hoodie after a round of vigorous sex. Vigorous sex with him. A burning sensation rose in his cheeks when he realized he had just been staring at his friend’s crotch for what had to be a solid minute. The feeling of blood burning his cheeks was nothing compared to the feeling of it pooling in more sensitive areas, however.

“It really is grey,” he started, his eyes glazing over a little before he shook his head slightly and very reluctantly tore his gaze away and upwards to Karkat’s face. He was suddenly even more aware now of just how close their bodies were. “I mean. Okay. Karkat, why aren’t you wearing pants? Why is no one caring that you’re absent your jeans, and why are you not thinking this is a big deal? Seriously, I cannot be the only one who is seeing this,” John emphasized, pointing awkwardly at his friend’s nether regions without looking down.

Karkat rolled his eyes, cocking his hips and — shit, John was once again looking at that bulge with far too much intensity. “Grub-fucking shit, John, it’s too early for this, and you didn’t even have the decency to bring me coffee today,” Karkat frowned, the kind of frown that John had learned to interpret as being playful. At least, John would have interpreted it that way, if his eyes had actually been glued to Karkat’s face instead of admiring his thighs and how grippable his hips looked. “Hey, do you have your English homework with you? Apparently that bastard wrote questions on the board when half the class wasn’t paying any attention at the end of the day and failed to mention whether they counted for marks. I’d rather not take my chances and fail some completely random assignment because I was too busy reading ahead in the fourth sorry excuse for a novel required for that class.” As he gestured widely along with his cursing, Karkat’s arm knocked a precariously placed book off the shelf of his locker. “Damnit.”

The troll turned around to glare venomously at the text and the few scattered pages notes which now lay on the floor. Then he bent over right in front of John to collect them, his shapely butt shifting ever so slightly against the front of John’s pants. John’s very tented pants.

The temptation in that moment was too great to deny no matter how hard he fought, so with a sure step forward, he pressed against Karkat’s smooth skin, his hands reaching out with confidence to hold Karkat’s hips in place. John’s pants were suddenly far too constricting for his taste as he rolled his hips slowly upwards, drawing out an involuntary, needy whimper which caught in his throat. Fabric rubbed roughly against him as he pressed up into solid mass, the friction so pleasurable it caused his insides to shudder.

Karkat seemed to be taking an obscene amount of time to pick up his things, completely ignoring the strong hands gripping at his hips or the hardness pressing against him as John shifted needingly forward. 

It suddenly didn’t matter that Karkat wasn’t wearing pants, that no one seemed phased by it, or that everyone was just ignoring John getting off by rutting against his best friend. John didn’t even care if it made him kind of terrible to be taking advantage of how strange the situation was. All that really mattered was that Karkat kept bending over.

“Stop wasting time. If you don’t hurry up, we’ll be late for class.” Karkat’s voice was teasing as he glanced back over his shoulder, eyes lowering between them as a smirk played on his lips. “Are you capable of taking care of yourself, or do you need some help?”

‘Help’ was punctuated with Karkat arching his back, an action which sent him pressing even more firmly back into John than before. John stilled, his hands clamping down on Karkat's firm hips as the acknowledgment and accompanying increase in pressure was almost enough to send him over the edge. A moan slipped through his lips as he resumed his previous motions before he rocked forward a little harder, the momentum pushing Karkat firmly against the locker in front of him, the trolls hands moving up to brace against the locker. His movements were almost lazy, considering his frame was being rattled with every thrust of the teen behind him. John followed through with the push by further tightening his grip on Karkat’s hips, his thrusts taking on a steady rhythm, all but pounding himself against the troll's backside. His breath was starting to come in pants, his chest heaving as his awareness faded so that it was just the two of them, everything else fading into the background and becoming a dull buzz. Karkat's knowing grin and the way he was starting to grind back into John’s rutting weren’t helping John's control any, and he felt himself edging closer and closer.

John bit his lower lip, a moan escaping from his throat even louder than the previous one. He was almost there. One of his hands lashed out and clamped onto Karkat's shoulder, pulling the troll closer to him and allowing him both a firmer grip and a more stable base for his thrusts. With Karkat's name tumbling from his lips, John felt himself beginning to slip; just a bit more...

John’s awareness was penetrated by the ringing of the school bell. The bell started ringing in quick successions, the small part of John’s brain that could still think telling him that it was ringing well before it should have, the sound coming from the intercom an odd buzzing that sounded suspiciously like an alarm clock...

John awoke with a start, straining to catch his breath. He stared up at his ceiling for a few long moments before he groaned, leaning over to slap his hand over his clock. 

It had been just a dream, as always. Shit.

Blinking tiredly and shifting to get out of bed, he felt a familiar, sticky warmth make itself known in the front of his boxers. 

“Damnit, Karkat, again?” John sighed, throwing the covers away and looking down at the damp cloth clinging to his still softening dick. Struggling sluggishly to his feet, he stripped the underwear off, dropping them into his clothes hamper as he made his way to the bathroom. 

Frowning, John examined himself in the mirror above the sink. He was not too thrilled at the prospect of having to delay his morning training in order to take a shower. He hadn’t set his alarm to accommodate the extra time needed to bathe, since he had cleaned up the night before — someone had cracked a half full bottle of alcohol over his head and he hadn’t been exhausted enough to go to bed with that in his hair. 

“Seriously, Karkat. This is the third time this week.” John frowned at his reflection, staring at himself unhappily. Running a hand through tousled, sweaty hair before reaching into the shower and turning on the faucet, he stepped in, uncaring of the blistering cold that assaulted his skin and made him involuntarily jump. He needed to cool down, anyway; all the wet dreams about Karkat were really starting to mess with his head.

/ / /

After showering, John still managed to join his father for most of their morning exercise. As he went through the motions of his routine, his mind was anything but calm as he contemplated the situation he’d found himself in that morning. It was a routine that was becoming increasingly familiar, to the point that it was actually a bit of an issue because it was interfering with John’s ability to get down to the basement on time. John was thankful that his parent was not the type to raise questions or fish for a reason as to why his son had woken up on time and yet hadn’t been able to make it downstairs on their agreed-upon start time.

On the occasions that John would be late getting down and would actually remember to mutter a tired apology, his dad would say something about him being that age and leave it at that, though that never made John feel much better. 

By this point, John was sure that his dad had undoubtedly figured out was was going on, perhaps not from John’s frequent tardiness for training, but by the levels of unguarded affection he would accidentally let slip when talking about his best friend. Despite having never said anything outright, John was certain his dad knew his “secret”: he was in love with Karkat Vantas.

The longer he waited for the right opportunity to disclose to his dad his feelings, the more awkward John felt like the situation was becoming. It wasn’t like he was actively avoiding the topic, really. He gushed about his time with Karkat at nearly every mealtime he and his father had together, which was a stark contrast to how things were before the troll had entered their lives, a change the observant man clearly wouldn’t have missed. John had plans to tell him, he really did; it was just a matter of finding the right opportunity. And it wasn’t like he really felt he had anything to fear from the admission, because he knew for a fact that his dad would approve of the relationship. Probably. Maybe. Well, he’d approve of the _idea_ of the relationship, at least. 

It was strange to keep something he considered a large part of his life away from the man whom he had been trusting literally his entire existence, but some part of him that had never had the opportunity to rebel against his dad relished in the idea of actually keeping a sizable secret away from his father for once, rather than having to keep one for him. Besides, his dad undoubtedly had figured it out already, anyway, so it wasn’t like he was lying or betraying his dad’s trust. He simply hadn’t felt it necessary to talk about, yet.

If it was hard to keep something so big from someone whom he had always trusted so much, it was even harder keeping it from Karkat. Sometimes it felt like his chest would literally burst from how hard his heart would beat around the troll, especially on those somewhat rare occasions he managed to coax a genuine, if guarded, smile from the boy. Which was to say nothing of the even rarer instances when he’d managed to reduce Karkat to fits of laughter. On those occasions, it took every ounce of John’s willpower to keep from wrapping his arms around his friend and squeezing him tight.

Still. While it was true that he had never actually insisted that friendship was the only thing he wanted from Karkat, if anyone actually asked, he wasn’t sure if he could openly admit to the way he felt or whether he’d keep it inside. 

On one hand, he deeply, deeply desired the troll’s affection like nothing else he had ever longed for in his entire life, to the point that mere mention of Karkat’s name usually made warmth pool in the pit of his stomach and brought a quirk to his lips. 

On the other hand, he couldn’t bring himself to even consider the repercussions that he and Karkat could have to face if he openly expressed what the aching in his chest meant. While he wasn’t forbidden from being with someone, John knew that doing so would mean endangering the person he loved, and that was something that he knew he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to do. The only way he could see it working would be if he hung up his goggles and retired.

He’d do it, too. In a heartbeat. It had only been a year or so since he had begun to understand what precisely he felt for his crabby best friend, but if there was one thing that John Egbert knew, it was that he was head over heels in love, and he’d do anything to see that love fulfilled. If Karkat asked him to hang up his mask and never go out again, he’d do it. 

He was willing to give up the sky for Karkat Vantas.

But for all the burning, aching desire that John felt in his chest whenever he thought of them being together, there was another feeling fighting for dominance inside him. 

From a very young age, John had in the very core of his being been instilled with a sense of honor, and duty. He had been given the burden of extraordinary power, and he’d been taught that with that power came responsibility. He had a responsibility to the people of his city to use his gifts, and to use them for good. Because if he didn’t, if he decided to turn his back on the innocents of his city and pursue his own heart’s desires, then next time there might not be anyone else around to save Karkat Vantas from being killed in a violent shootout. Or to save a burning building full of trapped tenants. Or any other number of tragedies that he had prevented as Heir.

The simple fact of the matter, as far as he was concerned, was that the lives of all those that he could eventually save far outweighed the pursuit of his heart’s completion. And that was the way that it had to be.

Too lost in the thought of not being able to have what he truly wanted, John remembered where he was and took a look around, suddenly finding that he had been holding the final position of the exercise for far too long, his dad staring at him from near the weights as the man wiped his brow with a towel. John shrugged and sent out his most sheepish smile when his dad raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but said nothing otherwise. John grabbed his own towel from the bar it was hanging on before he hurried upstairs, feeling burdened about his dilemma and his having to hide something he wished to openly convey just as freely as any other teenager. 

John sighed as he trudged up the stairs, his mind revolving around the inevitable conversation he’d be having with his father — because it was only a matter of time before Karkat’s occasional, unguarded smiles and snarky tongue became too much for him to take — which, he knew, his dad would be outwardly supportive of, if only to make John happy. 

There was no doubt he would welcome the fact that John had found someone whom he wanted to protect, someone who made him so happy. He already wore a knowing smile whenever he discovered them spending time together outside of school, always laughing and insisting that they have fun. But under all the fatherly praise and the pats on the back he would receive, John knew that he would be expected to carry out the promise he had made to use his gift to help people. It was the same argument as before: he couldn’t give a relationship the proper time it deserved without giving up on being a hero, something that was completely out of the question. Stopping his life as Heir so he could have a shot at a normal romance was not something he could do, even if Karkat had any desire to be in a relationship with him.

Picking up the brush and cleaning materials he kept in his closet, John immediately went through the task of washing his costume from the previous night’s patrol. There was something soothing in the repetitive nature of the chore, an exercise that John had always found to be relaxing. Scrubbing at a particularly stubborn spot, John could feel the tension bleeding out of him, his mind shutting down to focus in on removing the stain. The whole process took several minutes, and by the end of it John was thankful that he hadn’t gotten dirty enough so that the costume had required more meticulous machine-aided cleaning, because the repetitive chore had been exactly what he needed to clear his mind.

Putting the cleaning materials up and his costume where it belonged, John headed downstairs for breakfast, in significantly better control over his emotions than he had been. With newspaper in hand and a mug of black coffee in front of him, his dad waited at the dining room table, his eyes scanning quickly through the words on the paper. 

John pulled out his chair and sat down in front of a sizable bowl of oatmeal and side of turkey sausage, quickly giving his thanks for the meal before eagerly digging in. The food on his plates disappeared quickly as he shoveled spoonful after spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, pausing only to chew and swallow. Once his bowl had been scraped clean of every last oat and there was no evidence remaining that his sausage had ever existed, John decided to finish off his meal with an apple from the table’s fruit bowl. Settling back in his chair to munch and chew on the apple, he gave himself a long moment to just relax and digest. Because his dad wasn’t one for conversation this early in the morning and because he himself didn’t particularly feel very chatty, John busied himself by reading the frontpage headline of his father’s paper as he sipped on a glass of orange juice.

**HEMOGOBLIN  
Another Masked Hero Emerges**

At first, John just nodded mentally to the words without actually processing what it was that he had read, before doing an abrupt double take, the current mouthful of orange juice sliding down his throat the wrong way and causing him to give off a hacking cough, the acidity burning his throat and causing his eyes to water. His dad merely lowered the corner of the page he was on to give John his second raised eyebrow of the morning, though this one came with a knowing smirk. After ascertaining that his son wasn’t choking to death, he folded the corner back and continued reading, allowing John full access to the front page again. John, meanwhile, was trying to process what it was he was reading.

Another hero. Huh. Curiosity piqued, John leaned forward to scan the article quickly for any signs of it being a hoax, publicity stunt, or just another person trying to emulate Heir. It wouldn’t have been the first time some nutcase with no powers or abilities had dressed up in costume and started running around the city claiming to be a hero. That kind of thing happened quite a bit, actually. But they rarely got front page coverage.

From what he read, multiple people had been spotting a troll in costume during the past few days, running around and stopping small crimes throughout the city. At that, John’s eyebrows were up, threatening to shoot into his hairline. Nobody claiming to be a hero before had actually followed through on the premise. Was this one different?

Reading on, John learned that while the troll seemed to favor a bit harsher punishment than Heir did, at least from what the journalist wrote, he also seemed to prefer the non-lethal approach of knocking people out and binding them for the police. It had been assumed that all of the recent civil arrests were thanks to Heir, until witnesses started pouring in with claims that their usual local superhero was not alone. A few victims of crimes had managed to draw a name from their rescuer and had taken it to the press, but otherwise this “Hemogoblin”—that gave John pause, because honestly? Hemogoblin? That totally sounded like the name of a villain—showed no current interest in putting himself in the spotlight. The journalist seemed optimistic, painting Hemogoblin in a positive light and noting that if things continued as they were, the city would end up being more secure than ever, something that was sure to make the streets safer at night, increase property values, and that other good stuff that came from community improvement.

John frowned, wondering how he had missed this development. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been on patrol the past few nights, flying around the city and searching for trouble, so it was kind of odd that he hadn’t heard anything about this yet. 

The wind usually steered him where he was needed, somehow, but if someone else was capable of handling things, did that mean it wouldn’t call to him? Was that why they hadn’t met? Had it deemed the crimes unworthy of his notice because this Hemogoblin was there, or was it merely the coincidence of them stopping crimes at different sides of the city at the same time? His frown deepened momentarily, noting that things had been a bit quieter than usual for him the past couple nights, before he resumed scanning over the small bit of the article he still had left. 

He was a bit dismayed, however, to find that the article abruptly ended with a note that it continued further on in the newspaper. Not wanting to seem too eager by yanking the paper away from his dad to find out more, John contented himself with inspecting the image accompanying the page.

The picture was blurry at best, the kind of image most likely taken from an ATM machine or a small security camera from across the street. The image showed a silhouette standing on top of a low-rise building in the dead of night. It was taken in black and white, but John could still discern the subtle variations in shade that the newspaper noted were black and red, the colors making him stand out visibly against the deep blue of the sky. When John squinted, he could just make out the two horns curving out and away from the troll’s head in a sharp angle, the explanation of the picture describing them as a richer and deeper color than any the witnesses had seen on a troll before.

“John, do you want to read the newspaper?” his dad asked, chuckling as John realized just how close he had been leaning forward across the table to try and catch detail in the fuzzy photograph. He sat back in his chair, grinning sheepishly as his dad closed the paper with his finger marking his spot. He inspected the cover like he hadn’t even read the article, even though John knew full well that he had. There was no way he wouldn’t have gone over anything that had to do with the possibility of his son running into someone who could aid in or jeopardize his duty as Heir.

“It sounds really interesting, you know, another possible hero in the city. I’d like to meet him,” John admitted while his dad continued to scan over the front page. The silence stretched until John felt a need to fill it rising in him, but just as he opened his mouth he got a reply.

“I want you to promise me that you won’t go searching for this... Hemogoblin. Not until we find out more about him. While he could be a potential comrade for you, he could be trying to lure Heir to him. You need to be careful.” Looking up from the paper, the man favored his son with a gravely serious expression. No, not at his son, John realized, but at Heir. John knew they might as well be two different people in his dad’s eyes, and he knew that that was sometimes the only way his dad could let him do the things that he did. It helped him to feel better about allowing his son into danger when he considered him not as John but as Heir, but still, it was a bit unnerving having that expression turned on him.

John let the silence between them hang for a pregnant pause before he responded, giving his words some thought. “Yeah, I know. I’ll wait. We’ll approach with caution, as usual,” John reluctantly agreed. That may have been what he said out loud, but a large part of him wanted nothing more than to track down whoever Hemogoblin was, if only so he could have an ally. Like so many teams and pairs of superheroes John read about in comics or heard about in the news, if there was another hero that could keep up with him and who shared his sense of justice, then this was someone who he could potentially confide in, who would understand some of his burdens, and even share in the responsibility to protect their city. He hadn’t ever really given serious consideration to having a partner before outside of comic book-induced fantasies, but now that a potential chance had presented itself, he found the idea to be extremely appealing.

“John,” his dad called, the sternness in his tone shaking John from his thoughts. Seeing the expression on his dad’s face, John fought off a sudden swelling of frustration, a bit of rebellion surfacing as he thought about this being the second instance that day in which he had to potentially curb one of his desires to fit his cautious lifestyle. His eyes hardened for just a second as he considered questioning his dad’s judgment, and just asking why it would hurt to just take a leap of faith every now and then and be daring enough to try something new. But as quickly as the fire had been lit within him, the flames were diminished greatly, though not extinguished completely, as the rational part of his mind reminded him that everything that his dad had said was completely true, and that he really did have to play things cautiously. His dad just wanted to keep him safe in a world where he was constantly putting his life on the line for others.

That didn’t make it easier to accept, however.

“I promise, okay?” John stood up, taking his dishes and placing them in the sink. Gritting his teeth, he knew full well how right his dad was to use discretion in this situation. He only wished for more compassion, more of his dad and less of the man who had trained him his whole life. Just as Heir wasn’t John, sometimes his dad just wasn’t his dad. Here was a chance to not feel so alone as a hero, even though he knew there were more than a dozen like him all over the country. He hoped his dad would see that, but he didn’t seem excited by the prospect at all. Still, his dad hadn’t outright forbid them from ever meeting, just for the moment, so John hung on to the hope that Hemogoblin would be deemed suitable to approach, at least sometime soon. 

“I’m going to grab my bag.” John left the kitchen with that, heading upstairs and hoping to cool his head by the time he needed to be back downstairs. As he dawdled in his room, John considered his current situation.

Lately he had felt pressure weighing on him while he was at home, more so than it ever before. It felt like everything was now a push towards growing up, being a better hero, and getting him to think a certain way, like there was a time limit rapidly winding away. Maybe it was due to the fact he looked less like a child and so much more like a man, or that he only had a year left before graduating high school. Pretty soon he’d have to head off into the world and find something to do to that could support him while continuing to be Heir. One day he would have to stop leaning on his dad and, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, that time was quickly approaching.

As John bounded down the stairs, backpack in hand, he looked forward to the moment when he could let the pressure dissolve for a handful of hours. He could unwind in the simplicity of school, scribble down answers like he normally did, and talk to the one person who really made it all bearable. 

Stopping by the kitchen on his way out, John filled a thermos full of hot coffee, the pot having been brewed specifically for this purpose, and then he headed out the door, his dad giving him stern looks every now and then.

/ / /

After John was dropped off at school after one very quiet car ride, he immediately headed inside the building through the main doors. Once he climbed the first flight of stairs to the second level, he kept a quick pace as he set out in the direction of his locker. Before he dropped his books off, he had a stop to make on the way. There was a special delivery for Karkat Vantas that couldn’t wait: a promised very large, very hot cup of coffee. After what had begun as an offhand remark during one of their initial morning conversations, John had made sure to bring Karkat coffee since the day after he had met his now best friend. He had continued the tradition so long because, more often than not, it was a nearly surefire way to see a hint of a smile to start off his school day. And he lived for those smiles.

Karkat was busy sorting through his locker when John got there. Despite how the troll insisted time and time again that John just had impeccable timing, John knew that most of the time he was really just pretending to be busy while he waited. Once or twice John had been held up by a classmate or teacher in the hallway and he had watched Karkat just needlessly flip through his binders and textbooks for much longer than necessary. Never late, never absent, Karkat was always there waiting, and that alone was enough to make John’s heart swell. This was one constant in his life that he could feel sure of, at least.

“Good morning,” John greeted, as he leaned against the locker beside the troll’s, nodding his head down to take in the slightly dazed look of his groggy friend. Karkat muttered something under his breath before he arched his back in a stretch. There was an audible crack before he went back to slouching his shoulders. 

It sometimes came as a shock that Karkat was nearly the same height as John when he broke from his habitual hunch and stood up straight. While John had grown significantly upwards in the past year and a half, Karkat had matched every growth spurt. The rest of him had also matured pleasantly in the passing year. There was no longer any baby fat remaining to cling to his sharp features, his striking looks now very noticeable. Karkat had come a long way, especially when it came to the body he constantly covered in clothes a couple sizes too large. That Karkat often layered just added to John’s frustration, because at this point, he would’ve done some pretty outlandish things to get the troll to take off his shirt. On the rare instances when the troll wore anything that showed skin, John would spend as much time as he could just drinking in the sight. And what a sight it was. Whenever he managed a peek, he was always surprised to note the sleek muscles the troll was blessed with. Give a little coaching, Karkat could probably really hurt someone with those guns, if he tried.

“I brought you coffee.” There was no response beyond one arm lifting to the side, a hand held open expectantly.

John laughed, offering up the thermos. After fingers latched around the base, Karkat flipped open the top with his thumb and brought it to his mouth in a single motion, the action repeated often enough to become ingrained in the troll’s muscle memory. John’s eyes followed the thermos up, watching as lips curved around the rim before the head was tossed slightly back, John’s gaze trailing down to fixate on the steady bob of Karkat’s adam’s apple.

After a long gulp, Karkat pulled the thermos away with a satisfied sigh, tongue flicking to catch a drip from slipping past the thermos’ lip. “Caffeine, you dark temptress, how would I survive without the addictive masterpiece that is your god damn nectar of the gods? I’ve said it before and I will say it again, Crabdad has zero concept of how badly I need coffee in my life and is thus a festering pustule of good intentions for banning any form of liquid good mood from my mornings. I still don’t know if it’s him trying to be a parent and stop me from being dependent on a stimulant — thank you for blatantly going against his wishes and ruining my purity forever if that was his intention, by the way — or if he just doesn’t like the smell.”

John laughed and waited for his friend to take another sip before letting his eyes return down the line of Karkat’s neck, past the simple grey hoodie he wore, and lower. His attention soon drifted down to the loose jeans hanging shapelessly from his body, the material frustratingly refusing to cling to any of his friends curves. Really, what had he been expecting? “John, seriously, should I have split this with you? What the fuck are you looking at?”

“Just making sure you’re wearing pants,” John informed with a grin. He didn’t see the point in stumbling over his thoughts in order to come up with a convincing lie. Karkat had once said that his past social awkwardness had just given way to a weird sense of honest humor. It could have made things more awkward if Karkat wasn’t the type to just run with it. 

“I don’t want to know.” Or just dismiss it. John stood by, content to lean against the locker and watch his longtime crush as he waited for Karkat to finish getting his things sorted while steadily drinking the coffee. Being this close to him started to bring back his thoughts from earlier in the morning, however, and John fought valiantly to ward them, to no avail.

Watching Karkat relax in his presence, John wondered if he should just be blunt with his feelings if a situation ever came up to present them. The answer to that was most likely a no, as there were so many uncertainties over making his desires known that it almost didn’t seem worth it, especially once he had found out that Karkat really had no interest in forming a relationship with anyone that they knew, or so he’d told him. John wasn’t nearly cocky enough to believe that he could be an exception to this decision, despite how badly he wanted to be. Even if Karkat was open to the idea of being with someone, John didn’t know if he would take his confession seriously or if he’d just try to pull apart whatever kind of joke he’d think he was making. It hurt, sometimes, the pain of longing constricting his heart feeling unbearable, but he wasn’t willing to risk not having a best friend for the improbability of returned affection.

So, like every day before this one, John was going to pretend that he held no deep desires for the troll beside him. He’d act just like he always did, as if he didn’t want and dream about pressing his lips against that ashy grey skin or find out just what those loose fitting clothes hid...Clearing his throat, John brought a hand up to his mouth to hide his expression, the grin at that thought undoubtedly looking entirely inappropriate.

“Guess what I read in today’s paper?” The excitement of the news sparked back into him, his eagerness to share pushing away his wish to reach out and take Karkat for himself.

“That the general populous is still not capable of mind-reading and is thus still unable to guess the answers to pointless rhetorical questions like that one? I have no fucking idea what you read in the paper, John. Who even reads the paper anymore?” Karkat closed his locker door and stepped out into the hallway, heading in the direction of John’s own locker. The teen hero followed, sticking so close beside the troll that they were almost touching.

“Oh, come on. You can’t even humor me, even after I went through all the trouble of bringing you your morning go-go juice? That’s cold, Karkat. And I’ll have you know that my dad reads the paper, because he’s a traditional kind of guy. I just happened to read the front page because it was really interesting.” John spun his lock, opening the door to get to work switching out his books. 

“Go on, then, spit out your glorious news findings.” Karkat tipped the thermos back against his mouth, chugging down the remainder of the coffee. He held the empty container out for John to take, with the unspoken expectation that it would be filled once more on Monday morning. John wrapped his hand around it, carefully making sure to brush his fingers over the troll’s and hating how dissatisfied he was with the stolen contact.

“Well, maybe I don’t want to tell you, if you’re going to be all sassy about it,” John said. Karkat simply raised a delicate eyebrow and stared at him expectantly, and John stood his ground for all of about five seconds before he couldn’t keep it inside him anymore. “Okay, so, there may be another hero in our city. Or at least, there’s a troll dressing up in costume, using an alias, and saving the day in the dead of night.”

“That counts as front page news these days?” Karkat looked skeptical, though John knew he had to be just as excited as he was. The troll had a tendency to guard his more excitable tendencies, even after he had been revealed as a huge hero fanboy by day two of their friendship. “So what, someone decides to put on a costume and pretend to be Heir, gets a few cats out of some trees? Think it’s another regular guy wanting his chance to be Superman?”

“I don’t think so, or, I hope not. The article said he came in and stopped some actual crimes pretty effortlessly. The police thought it was all Heir until people started saying how they were saved by a troll dressed in black and witnesses reported the same thing. A few managed to get a name from him: Hemogoblin. Doesn’t that just scream the cool, silent, take-no-shit hero type?”

“You think so?” Karkat raised a skeptical eyebrow but couldn’t fight the grin from overtaking his lips. There it was, the appearance of the troll’s love of anything pertaining to the world of superheroes. The unconditional admiration of those who sought to protect the world — and, in point of fact, he himself — was one of the things John found most endearing. 

“Don’t you? Think about it, we could have two local heroes, fighting side by side to protect the city. Who knows, they could even be a team! How awesome would that be?” Karkat laughed at John’s enthusiasm, nodding at the idea of the possibility of a crime fighting duo. 

“Yeah, that does sound pretty cool.” Karkat grinned broadly, genuinely approving in the idea. For probably the hundredth time that day, John wanted to kiss Karkat right on the mouth, despite his mouth probably tasting bitter due to extreme coffee consumption. 

“We should probably head to class,” Karkat noted, side-eyeing a clock hanging down the hall. John wished he had more time. They shared fewer classes than they had the previous year, so he didn’t have the opportunity to try and satisfy himself with stealing glances in class as often as he did last year. Only their English and P.E. periods were shared, though P.E. often presented exceptional ogling opportunities. Those were both at the beginning of the day, though, so after that he had to tell himself that it was enough to have the same lunch period and Biology Club. Lunch just might have been his favorite because it was so easy to pretend that they were on a sort of date, especially when they ate under their tree. Damn, he was absolutely smitten, and it was only getting worse. 

John quickly went over his routine in his head as they walked towards their English class. As it was with every Friday, he already felt a certain sense of sadness that he probably wouldn’t get to see Karkat until Monday. That was, unless he interrupted Karkat’s weekend schedule when he was at his part-time job, though that usually ended in a lot of cursing and demands for him to stop ordering takeout. So what if he’d call and order from Karkat’s restaurant three or four times a day? At least it meant he got to hang out with Karkat for a few minutes, even if the last time he’d left Karkat with an eyebrow tic that hadn’t gone away for a while. He probably wouldn’t this time, if only because he really couldn’t eat as much food as he tended to order. 

At least the added hours to John’s nightly patrols would make the two days go by quicker, along with the homework he had to get ahead of. Then his Karkat-less suffering would be over and he’d be back to school. Mondays were always his favorite day of the week because it meant that he would see Karkat waiting for him first thing in the morning.

Ugh. John had a serious problem, and his name was Karkat Vantas. At least the evenings gave him a chance to free his mind from all the pent up hormones.

/ / /

The night air still held the chill of winter, but as long as John could control the wind and which currents touched him, he never felt it. It took very little of his concentration to push away the cold and pull in any warmth he could, but as a precaution, he wore additional layers under his costume and a jacket to match it, at least until the temperature rose to something more comfortable. John wouldn’t be back to Heir’s basic costume for another few weeks yet, and the weather was months away from when it would actually be considered pleasant. He was looking forward to that, but not for the fact that the eventual warming of the evenings signaled the peak in crime that the summer months always brought.

Turning his attention to more important matters, John stilled in the air as he felt a sudden tugging at his senses, the backdraft from his flight and sudden halting of his momentum rustling the trees in the park beneath him. Closing his eyes, John reached out with his senses and made conscious contact with the wind as he tried to discern what it wanted to tell him. All at once there was an upsurge in the amount of vibrations in the air, the trees all around him rustling even harder. The smell of dust and metal came flowing along the wind and filled his nostrils, and all at once John’s head snapped in the direction of the phenomena. Opening his eyes, he could just barely make out a withering plume of smoke in the distance, all the signs pointing to an explosion having taken place somewhere in what looked to be the financial district. Gathering up the wind around him, John propelled himself through the air, gaining elevation before zipping off in the direction of the explosion, the wind tugging at him urgently.

He reached the site of the explosion in half a minute, the lingering smoke and the glass littering the street below a dead giveaway. The tall building was the main office of a well-established security firm, if his memory served correctly. Recalling all that he could about this particular company, John found himself remembering a story in the newspaper from just last week. This security firm was one of four other such companies that were cited as being potential storage locations for the valuable pieces of one of the museum’s upcoming exhibitions from out of state. It looked like there was reason to believe this was the chosen storage facilities, considering the gaping hole in the side of the building. 

He circled the site once to assess the situation from above. People were starting to appear at the doorways of nearby apartment complexes and hotels, having been woken by the sudden noise. Sirens were closing in, obviously alerted by multiple concerned citizens as well as by the audible ringing of several nearby alarms, no doubt set off by the concussive blast. John wondered briefly as to why he wasn’t hearing an alarm coming from inside the building, but it either meant that the perpetrators were skilled enough to disable the alarm first, or else the building only ran silent alarms. Still, it would’ve made sense for a fire alarm to have been triggered, so John was leaning towards the former possibility. That was in keeping with the surgical cleanness of the blast area; most of the rubble had been blown in, rather than out and onto the street below, and the section blown in was neat, and focused. That meant that whoever was hitting this place had blasted their way in after most likely rappelling from the roof, and it would’ve taken a sophisticated knowledge of how to shape explosives to achieve that kind of result.

The hero descended until he was almost level with the building’s newest opening, his eyes scanning for any details that might prove relevant or beneficial. They had most likely used some type of plastic explosive, if the slight bituminous odor still hanging in the air was anything to go by. That, and the stuff was easy to shape. Not so easily acquired, however, which meant that this was definitely a professional job. That usually denoted that his opponents would be well-armed.

John was nearly at the hole when he noticed he wasn’t alone.

Apparently, his brief scan of his surroundings had somehow missed the troll hanging back near the broken wall on the crumbling ledge outside the hole, the color of his clothes blending him into the outside of the darkened office that the thieves had made their entrance. 

John was lucky enough that the other seemed too engaged in surveying the crime taking place to notice that Heir had just come up behind him. The troll was tall, maybe half an inch shorter than John himself. Judging from the outfit — black with red lining made out of a material that just hugged every muscle of his...wow, really toned...body — the masked face, and the drawn hood, John had another whack-job on his hands. It was only ever the really eccentric types that seemed to wear costumes to commit crimes (the irony that he was currently in a costume himself did not elude his thoughts), and this guy looked pretty dressed to the nines for a fight. Or something more promiscuous, perhaps, if the sleeveless catsuit was anything to go by. Spikes jutted out at various spots on the troll’s costume, their dark tips silhouetted against the moonlight, now that John’s vision had begun to properly adjust to the darkness. It would be a wonder if he didn’t constantly cut himself on those during any kind of vigorous activity, John idly noted, though he categorized and filed the information away as a potential threat in a fight.

While John had been observing his outfit, at some point the troll had apparently started observing John right back, not making a single sound as his eyes stayed glued on the hero’s face, his expression solemn.

Cursing inwardly for being discovered so soon, John’s mind went into overdrive as he analyzed all of the facts of his situation as quickly as he could, adrenaline starting to pump through his veins as his body anticipated imminent action. His vision narrowed and his breathing slowed, the world around him coming into sharper focus as his autonomic nervous system geared up to initiate fight or flight.

Except, he paused, his opponent wasn’t making a move. John was at once struck by how odd this all was. Usually, by now, there would be some desperate attempt to alert the rest of the group that Heir had come to stop them, or a drawing of weapons, or at least some kind of defensive or offensive movement. But as his eyes took in every inch of his opponent, John’s brain noticed that the troll’s muscles hadn’t tensed, his breathing hadn’t changed, and there hadn’t even been any pupillary response, from what he could tell. In other words, the troll hadn’t reacted to his presence at all, not even subconsciously.

John was further perplexed when nothing happened for a very long, very tense moment. The whole time, he never lowered his defenses, ready for the attack that he was sure to come, alert with the wind swirling around his fingertips. John tensed and almost let loose with a blast of wind when he saw the troll beginning to move, except contrary to what he had expected, the guy just slowly turned back to watching through the hole, his attention shifting completely away from the hero. 

That threw John for a loop. Was he dealing with a certified lunatic, maybe? One that didn’t have the rationality to fear? Since he was apparently not going to get jumped and his unexpected company was making no move to aid those inside the bank, John decided to take a quick peek at where the troll was looking. 

Floating in further into the hole, John risked a peek around the corner, never once presenting his back to the odd troll, a tight coil being kept on the wind at his side.

There were four of them visible, three humans and one troll, each rushing frantically a few doorways down trying to get their job done. A second troll emerged from another room, carrying a black duffle bag and walking much more casually than the others. From the way his weight was shifted to one side, it was obvious that he was carrying something pretty heavy. All in all, it looked like a rather disorganized operation if the way the others were rushing about was any indication, but the criminals seemed like they were nearing the end of whatever it was that they had planned, several other duffel bags on the floor near the troll that had just entered. The sirens were still far enough away that they could get out and, more likely than not, make it away unmolested by the police if they had planned that far ahead. In John’s experience, criminals that were this well-prepared at executing a heist usually had fairly extensive getaway plans, so it wouldn’t have surprised him in the least to learn that there was at least one car waiting for the criminals somewhere on the street below. 

What stood out was that they were all dressed quite normally for this type of job, basic black balaclavas hiding their faces but nothing really out of the ordinary on their persons besides the harnesses and climbing gear that validated his earlier assumption about their method of entry, and possibly their method of escape. But that was expected. What wasn’t expected was the eccentrically-dressed troll in the bodysuit that looked like he had been poured into. It made it hard to connect the troll to any of them. But if the troll wasn’t with them, what was he doing there?

John turned quickly to examine the troll once more to see if he could figure him out, only to catch him stepping away from the wall in silent, fluid strides. John’s body tensed up and prepared for a blow when he saw the smirk on the troll’s lips as he walked by John without giving him a second glance, his pace quickening as he darted inside and down the hallway with alarming speed, his knees bent and his stance low. 

Before John’s brain had caught up with what was happening, the troll had reached the gathering of criminals and already downed one man by dropping into a rather acrobatic handstand and rotating his hips, the momentum of the move carrying his body a full one hundred and eighty degrees while simultaneously kicking the troll in front of him right in the temple, sending him sprawling to the floor in a boneless heap, obviously unconscious. Instead of continuing with his momentum, the troll bent his elbows slightly and pushed hard against the floor, leaping back into a graceful backflip and directly onto his feet, the thought of executing such a maneuver making John’s spine hurt just imagining it. 

The whole thing had happened in a matter of seconds, in just about the same amount of time that would’ve taken John while being assisted by the wind. Wow. Those sleek muscles were definitely not just for show, he decided.

Rising into a standing position, the oddly-dressed troll proceeded to taunt the remaining criminals, a grin on his face as he swayed from foot to foot, daring them to come closer. With a frustrated shout that had John rolling his eyes at bad-guy-theatrics, the guy nearest the troll decided to challenge him, running forward and brandishing a heavy-looking flashlight like a club.

The troll swung to the side of the man’s initial swing, evading the blow easily with shockingly fluid movements, his body turning swiftly to the side and allowing the large man to tumble past him. All at once, he lashed out with a combination knee to the gut and open palm to the chest, the unfortunate man’s body thumping to the floor heavily as spittle escaped his lips and he struggled harshly to draw in a breath, even though he appeared to be already completely out of it. John wondered briefly if the troll had done serious damage to the man’s ribcage, but he didn’t dare let his focus waver from the fight for more than a fraction of a second, the condition of the still-active opponents far more important than the condition of the downed ones.

This time, the troll didn’t wait for the remaining three to come to him, his legs coiling underneath him before he darted towards the two closest to him. A solid meter before he made contact, he dropped low and kicked high, hitting the first under the chin with his heel before popping up and following through with a spinning roundhouse to the cheek of the second.

The way that the troll flowed from stance to stance almost effortlessly was just like he was dancing, John thought, though his style was obviously borrowing from several different schools of martial arts. John was so transfixed on watching the troll fight that he almost failed to notice the final opponent turning tail and running further down the hallway, shouting for help. At least he had assumed the troll was turning tail. That assumption was proven incorrect when moments later John heard the echoing of multiple pairs of feet pounding down the hallway, and half dozen more men entered, ready to fight. It was at that point that John decided that it was about time that Heir stepped in to assist.

It was just as he rushed in, throwing a concentrated blast of wind to knock two men off of their feet with one hand while the other punched another hard in the gut, that he realized who the strangely-clad troll must have been. Unless there were multiple masked men new to the city, then he had probably just had his first run-in with Hemogoblin. 

If he wasn’t currently ducking under a sloppy haymaker, his knee lashing upwards to catch his opponent in his stomach, John probably would’ve smacked himself in the head for being so stupid and forgetting about the new hero on the block. It had been just a little more than sixteen hours ago that he had been excitedly babbling to Karkat about the latest masked vigilante, after all. In a situation such as this, he should’ve been able to piece together the clues almost instantly, rather than taking so long to work it out. Regardless, there would be time to berate himself later. He felt excited for the fight to be over, wanting to cut straight to the mop-up, where he’d undoubtedly get a chance to learn something about the other hero. In his enthusiasm, John unleashed a few more concentrated balls of air into the fight than he normally cared to, several of the projectiles catching an unfortunate pair of criminals who had made the unwise decision of standing close to each other in the hallway. The spheres of wind exploded in their midst and sent them careening into the walls, their bodies slumping to the ground and not stirring, the men effectively knocked out. 

That left only a trio on his side, the two trolls and one human eyeing him warily after his impressive display of attack power. John took advantage of the brief lull in the combat to turn his attention to the room behind him, taking in all of the downed criminals around him. The troll-that-was-almost-certainly-Hemogoblin was leaning against a wall, observing John’s fight with a relaxed expression on his face, his lips quirking softly in a slight smirk. John couldn’t decide whether to be amused by the troll’s cockiness or annoyed at how he was just sitting by and watching while John mopped up, but he didn’t have time to decide on which because the remaining criminals had decided to gather their wits and rush him as a group.

John smirked, wondering how in the hell they expected to attack him effectively in a group like that in such tight confines. Before they were even ten feet away, John sent a strong gust of wind at the lead runner’s legs, tripping him up and causing him to go down. The two following closely behind him stumbled over their comrade, each finding their legs swept out from under them as they lost their footing and tumbled into a pile of limbs. John strode over them calmly and, with a cocky smirk back at the troll, planted a kick squarely on the temple of each man before they had a chance to untangle themselves.

And just like that, it was over.

Sensing movement out of his peripheral vision, John spun around, the wind jumping to his aid and forming around his fist in an invisibly swirling tornado.

Only to slowly lower his hand, the unseen force dissipating from around his hand, the only sign that it was there in the first place being the way that his hood continued to ruffle and flutter on his head. The costumed troll was going about binding the hands and feet of each downed man with plastic handcuffs, identical to the ones that he himself used. Opening up one of his side pouches, John took out his own handful of handcuffs and started mimicking the troll. 

When they were finished, they both turned to look at each other, neither saying a word. 

In the dim lights the criminals had set up throughout the building, John could make out the red ‘H’ across the other’s chest, a stylized crossbar dripping with three lines of blood. This really was Hemogoblin, then, if the newspaper article was correct in its information. Not that he was really doubting the troll’s identity after that little display. Despite John’s initial doubts, the troll could obviously hold his own in a fight, each of his hits having ended in a knockout, from what he’d seen. Dangerous, for sure.

He’d have to tell his dad about this, and about the feeling he was getting from the troll. John was usually preternaturally adept at judging a person’s character at a glance, and the feeling he was getting from the troll was that this man was safe. He hoped that his dad would be understanding about him having met the vigilante literally right after his father had explicitly told him not to, but technically he hadn’t broken the promise he had made, because he never actually went looking for Hemogoblin. They just happened to be at the same place at the same time, because that’s what happens when you have two people both actively fighting crime. That begged the question of how exactly the troll knew to be there, since he presumably didn’t have the wind to help warn him of danger like John did. Had the troll just coincidentally been close enough that he had been able to make it to the scene faster than Heir? But...

John looked towards the hole in the building’s wall, the wind whipping and howling around it, stirring the contents of the gutted office. It had taken John less than a minute to get there after he noticed the signs of the explosion. How had Hemogoblin scaled the building that quickly? There hadn’t been any reports of him having the power of flight. John frowned, filing that question away for another time. He had more important things to do at the moment. Introducing himself, for example.

“I take it you’re the one I’ve been hearing about,” John stated, making sure his posture was perfect as he stared over at the troll. This was an important moment for John; it was the first time he’d ever met another hero in his entire life, after all. It wouldn’t do to make a negative impression because he was slouching. He tried to exude the confidence he felt when speaking as Heir, deepening his voice to sound older than he was. A task which took considerably less effort ever since puberty had had its way with him. “Hemogoblin?”

“Yes. That’s me,” he uttered, the tones soft and subdued. The troll was the quiet type, apparently, and seemed to be having a hard time deciding where to settle his attention, not able to hold John’s gaze for longer than half a second or so. Being a little flustered was understandable, John rationalized, considering how new to the world of crime-fighting he was. Hell, John was plenty flustered himself, coming face-to-face with another masked crimefighter. What even did you say in this sort of situation? ‘I like your mask’? That just sounded kind of lame.

“Nice to meet you, Hemogoblin. I’m Heir.” John held out his hand. Hemogoblin walked forward slowly, cautiously, closing the distance between them in two long strides, before he reached out and accepted the gesture. 

While they shook, John let his eyes travel up and down the troll’s body, taking in the details he had previously been too preoccupied to notice. What John had initially assumed were long gloves were actually arm warmers made out of the same material as the rest of his costume, the troll’s grey fingers left exposed. In their profession, gloves were generally a good idea if wanting to keep a normal life separate from a heroic persona. No gloves meant fingerprints, and generally it wasn’t the police trying to find out their true identities. John wondered if the other had considered this when choosing his peculiar costume design.

“I know who you are.” John let his eyes dart upwards to focus on Hemogoblin’s face when he spoke, his gaze immediately being drawn to one of the troll’s features. At that distance and with just the right amount of light illuminating their space, John for the first time caught the alarmingly bright red of his eyes. They were unnaturally vivid, sharing the same luminosity that all post-pubescent trolls shared. Except the red that made up the irises was unlike any rustblood’s eyes that John had ever seen, more closely matching the bright crimson of human blood. A red that didn’t exist in trolls. Were they contacts, just another part of the disguise? For a brief second, John felt his cheeks warming. Whatever they were, they were absolutely stunning, contrasting beautifully with the yellow sclera. Combined with the sharp features of the troll’s face, John was actually having a tough time looking away. 

Realizing that he was staring, John checked himself, letting his eyes trail even higher, John took in the prominently curved horns, their color matching the color of the troll’s eyes perfectly, the two protrusions adding an astonishingly exotic appeal to the troll’s angular face. “Everyone knows who you are.”

John again felt a slight blush creep to his cheeks, this time at the other hero’s acknowledgment, and tried his best to push it back down so that he at least kept the image of being composed. “You did a great job, here. Despite the situation, I’m very glad I was able to meet you.” Offering the troll a tentative smile, John tried hard not to sound too eager in their first meeting. If Hemogoblin was determined to become a hero, their paths would undoubtedly cross again, so the last thing he wanted to come across as was a total dork.

“Yes. I feel the same way.” The troll withdrew his hand, glancing down at it for a moment before letting it rest at his hip. “Do you require assistance watching these men?” John blinked, his gut reaction being a bit upset at the troll obviously wanting to leave his presence, before he thought about it and realized that Hemogoblin was most likely trying to cut their time short in order to leave before the police arrived. Assuming he didn’t have the ability to fly, it would take him a considerable amount of time more than John to cover ground. John could easily slip away just as the cruisers were pulling up, though this time he would probably stick around to make a statement. After all, he needed to give credit where credit was due.

“No, I should be fine. If push comes to shove, I can knock them back down.” John scanned over all the fallen men surrounding them. They definitely had similar styles when it came to immobilizing their enemies, though Hemogoblin’s seemed to be slightly more violent. It was hard to avoid being rough when dealing damage physically, but some of the sounds the criminals’ bodies had made when Hemogoblin had landed his attacks had been a little disturbing. “I really appreciate your help. I’d like to talk to you more, when we have the time.”

Hemogoblin nodded before walking over to the hole in the wall. Just before stepping out, he quietly called back over his shoulder. “I’ll...see you around, maybe.” Then he was gone, disappearing over the edge of the building and into the darkness.

John couldn’t wait.

/ / /

John flew in through the open window of his bedroom, still in high spirits after the night’s big arrest despite his exhaustion. He had been sure to inform the responding officers that Hemogoblin had been on the scene first, and that he had assisted the new hero only when he felt it was necessary. He had taken off soon after the proper credit had been given to his fellow hero, keeping an eye out for the troll but not seeing any sign of him again before having to turn in for the night.

Going through the routine of stripping off his costume, John reminisced on his first experience meeting another hero. Hemogoblin was definitely not just some guy in a costume, that was certain. While he seemed quite young — not past his early twenties, that was obvious — his body was very clearly a result of disciplined training over time. Either he had been working up to be a hero for much of his life, as John had, or he had been training for another reason and had decided to follow this path, instead. A body like that wasn’t one that just happened naturally. The speed had been too quick, and the movements too effortlessly precise for someone who had decided to try being a hero on a whim.

Slipping out of his pants while replaying the observed fight in his head, it dawned on him that Hemogoblin was pretty fucking attractive. The defined cut of his jawline and those striking eyes more than made up for whatever the mask was hiding. The choice of costume material would have had no trouble displaying every single imperfection that his body held, but John hadn’t noticed any. Every single dip and curve of the fabric had seemed to follow carved, lean muscle. From the glance he had gotten when the troll had left, nearly every visible muscle had been in pretty much perfect condition, toned and shapely but not at all bulky or prohibitive to movement or speed. John felt himself blush again because, despite how inappropriate it had been during that situation, he hadn’t been able to help noticing how...shapely...the other hero’s...assets...had looked in that skin-tight outfit. Hemogoblin was obviously pretty sure of his body if he was comfortable wearing such tight clothing. And he had quite a good reason to be confident, in John’s opinion.

Raising his arms above his head and stretching hard, John felt his vertebrae realign as he yawned tiredly. “I wonder what archetype he’d fall into,” John wondered aloud, walking over to his window and shutting it firmly for the night. It was too early to tell, really. They’d need to spend more time together to see if their methods really were compatible or if Hemogoblin would turn out to be more trouble than he was worth. There had been few real instances of two heroes protecting the same city that had ended in one being driven out, and John really didn’t want something like that happening. Too many big ideas on how to save the world and not enough team-building made for some messy situations. So he’d give it a try. If worst came to worst, he supposed they could just go their separate ways, just occasionally crossing paths whenever fate dictated it.

John slipped under his covers, shifting around to get comfortable. He felt almost too excited to fall asleep. Meeting another hero in real life was just really, really amazing. He felt a little starstruck, wishing he could have told Karkat, because he knew his friend would be just as thrilled about it as he was. It might have been a bit silly considering John was a hero himself, but it felt completely different to actually _be_ one and _meet_ one. It was a totally different deal, at least to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SM: Wow! Longest chapter yet, by far. There was a TON of content in that update. A year and a half has passed, John is totally head-over-heels in love with his best friend, there’s a new superhero in town, and holy crap, graphic wet dream. Cannot beat wet dreams. That scene almost didn’t make it into the chapter since it wasn’t in the original outline, but one crack-filled conversation a few weeks ago ensured that everyone got a heaping eyeful of beautiful Karkat ass. And I am so glad that happened. Panic is amazing, amirite?  
> If you aren’t already, make sure you’re following [**our tumblr**](http://realmenweartights.tumblr.com/), where you’ll find exclusive content not found here on AO3, like additional pictures by Panic (including several NSFW pics at this point. Want to see HeirKat frotting? We have that. Karkat giving Heir a blowjob? We have that too!), fanart, behind-the-scenes info, contest giveaways, and even **[ENTIRE MINI-FICS](http://realmenweartights.tumblr.com/post/29934934250/where-the-wind-takes-us-rmwt-non-canon-mini-fic)**. I strongly suggest clicking that second link, because you’re not going to find that mini-fic anywhere else except the tumblr blog. Also, everyone need give applause to Panic for this chapter’s panels, because the work that went into each one was staggering.
> 
> Until next time~  
> -Sgt.
> 
> Chief Writer - Bananaramses  
> Plot/Editor - SergeantMeow  
> Illustrator - Panicismyrain


	5. In Which John and Karkat Go on a Bro-Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter of pure fluffiness, commence!

Sleeping in past six in the morning was almost a challenge, John always found. Today was to be no exception.

Several seconds after the digital display on his clock turned to read six, John’s body began its wake-up procedures, instinctively knowing it needed to be awake despite the absence of his alarm, too used to its daily routine. Within a few groggy moments of blinking in the pale light that filtered through his window, John’s mind was awake and alert enough for the teen to know that he wasn’t slipping back into unconsciousness anytime soon. Despite having been out until just a few hours prior, his body was brimming with energy, his muscles aching to be stretched and used as his early-morning weekday warm-up routine beckoned. 

He had no real set plans for the day to look forward to that justified getting up in a timely manner, however. Saturday was always a bit hazy like that. There would be a more extensive training session with his dad at some point since he had missed out on practicing combat and defensive techniques during the school week, but that was only loosely scheduled for sometime during the first half of the day. After just having woken up, that seemed like a point too far in the future to even fathom.

Even though he knew there was no chance of falling back asleep, John wrapped himself around his blankets and closed his eyes, preferring the warmth of his bed to the prospect of getting up and facing the day.

Letting his mind relax as he urged his body to give in to slumber, his thoughts almost immediately drifted to the night before, free to run over the details of his encounter with the other supposed-hero as his mind toed the line between consciousness and a light snooze. 

Hemogoblin had been more than John could have ever imagined. At first, when he had seen mention of the other hero in the newspaper, his need to be skeptical had dampened just how _amazing_ potentially having another legitimate hero in the city could have been. His perception of the possibilities had been tainted by how there had been other average people in town —and many more the world over— who dressed up thinking they could help. Most of the time, they were either fans who were seeking attention from those they admired and emulated, or they were just flat-out delusional. Hemogoblin, to John’s surprise, had turned out to be none of those things. He was someone who could, quite obviously, take care of himself when push came to shove.

Thinking about the other night as he pulled his blankets tighter, John felt his sluggish mind feeling more and more impressed as he analyze what he had witnessed. The other hero had fought in a way that had been just as beautiful as it had been deadly; he was obviously skilled despite his apparent young age, a trait which John had always been proud of himself for possessing. No movement that John had seen had been wasted in his fluid method of fighting, the troll’s body continuously in motion through smooth twists and deep bends. It made John’s body ache just thinking about some of the more acrobatic techniques he had seen, the level of flexibility that must have required definitely something that he simply did not possess. John was flexible for a normal person, but Hemogoblin seemed like he could give a contortionist a run for their money. John was built for power, his muscles strong and sculpted, with his manipulation of the wind making up for any of his abilities lacking elsewhere. Hemogoblin had clearly built himself for speed. While he might not have been able to muster the sheer force behind his attacks like John could inflict, the troll’s blows had focused on pressure points and taken full advantage of his momentum. If he had applied just a bit more force, he could have easily made his hits fatal. It spoke volumes about his skill as a fighter that he could hold himself back. Even then, they had both sent several men to the hospital the previous night.

Thinking about Hemogoblin inevitably brought to mind the troll’s other characteristics, and John soon found the memory of catching that smoldering gaze hijacking his train of thought. Those captivating eyes had lit up so unnaturally, the bright red so strikingly vivid that John was surprised he hadn’t caught himself staring into them for an awkward amount of time. If they were real and not just contacts used to further disguise his identity, Hemogoblin had a blood colour that John had never heard of a troll possessing, like, ever. Though those eyes had been strange, they had also been entirely gorgeous, adding to a look that was easily as stunning as it had been alluring. 

Heat started to rise to John’s cheeks as he buried his face into his nearest pillow. He really didn’t need to be thinking about just how attractive he found the other hero to be. In his experience, thoughts like that only lead to one thing, and he wasn’t quite ready to let his hormone-crazed brain cheat on Karkat with some attractive hero he had just met. There was also the fact that he wasn’t the type to go slobbering over every hot guy he saw like a horny dog. Usually. With a groan, John pushed against his pillow and rose, deciding any attempt to sleep in any longer would just result in further reflection on the curves of Hemogoblin’s lean muscles and the way they stood out against his tight costume, or how those striking eyes seemed to draw him in. Not to mention the way that his...ugh.

He rolled out of bed, taking his covers with him most of the way before figuring his dad wouldn’t be all that impressed if he showed up downstairs cocooned in his sheets. He left them sprawled half way across the floor with the intention of fixing them upon returning upstairs to get properly dressed. John stretched out his back, feeling the usual sore ache between his shoulders protest with the movement. A warm shower would help relax some of the tension there, but that would have to wait until after breakfast and training.

John slipped on a pair of sweatpants and a plain T-shirt before heading downstairs. Predictably, his dad was drinking coffee at the kitchen table while flipping through the daily paper. At least he could count on his dad to be ever-reliable in his daily routine.

“Morning, dad,” John greeted, heading for his chair and sitting down. The older man looked up with a small smile, folding the paper and placing it down in front of him. 

Glancing at the front page, John saw no mention of the heist he and Hemogoblin had prevented, but that wasn’t a surprise. More often than not, the newspapers missed printing acts of heroism due to them occurring too late to cover. It was rare that a writer was brought in to cover a story at the very last minute; usually, the papers simply left it up to other media past midnight. John was sure mention of the night’s events had been released on news stations and over the internet, and that his dad at least had an idea of what had happened. Which meant he already knew Heir had met the new hero. Shoot.

“How was your night, son?” Uh-oh. John knew that tone. His dad was waiting for John to tell him himself. Wonderful. John hoped he wouldn’t earn a look of disapproval, or, worse, disappointment. He hated those.

“It was...eventful. There was an attempted robbery in the business district. They got in by blowing out the side of the building several stories up, using what I think was plastic explosive if the signs around the blast area were any indication. It certainly smelled like it, though I’m only going off that one time you demoed it for me. How they got their hands on that much is a bit of a concern. Someone definitely knew what he was doing and wasn’t unfamiliar with explosives, that’s for sure.” Focusing on the crime that had been stopped rather than how he had stopped it was probably the safer option, John figured.

“Yes, that is rather concerning. Though I take it that you apprehended them?” His dad got up and headed to the kitchen, opening the fridge to fish out things for breakfast. By the looks of what was being stacked on the counter next to an assortment of dry ingredients, it looked like French toast might be on the menu.

“Sort of. I wasn’t the only one who responded to the blast. Hemogoblin got there first.” 

John let the silence after that statement hang for a moment before continuing, his father saying nothing as he pulled a few eggs from the fridge and let the door close behind him. He seemed focused on his task, not giving John a single look as he waited for his son to continue.

His dad would hear him out until the end of his explanation, John knew that, but it didn’t make it feel any easier to talk about how he had unavoidably done exactly what his father had explicitly told him not to. 

“He must have been close by, because he was observing the perps by the time I got there. I was suspicious because I didn’t know who he was and thought he was the guard for the rest, but he went in and took down a handful of guys, no problem.”

“What was your impression of him?” The question seemed casual enough, as if they were discussing something much more pleasant. In reality, John knew that wasn’t really the case. 

His dad wanted to gauge Hemogoblin, pick him apart and analyze what John already knew in order to be that much safer. John couldn’t really blame him, because as a parent, he had every right be be wary of anything or anyone who potentially endangered his son just that much more. Still, having to do this was a bit irksome to the teen, for some reason.

“He’s a trained fighter who showed no signs of fatigue despite taking on a respectable number of men by himself. His style is a mix of different martial arts, from what I could tell, but it would be safe to say his foundation is most likely capoeira from his technique and his favouring of footwork. He was agile to the point of it being alarming, in what I think may have something to do with a power or ability, because he was moving like I do whenever I have the wind helping me. He also seemed entirely aware of the movement of his body, because I’ve never seen moves executed so fluidly from anyone, except maybe you.” His dad arched an eyebrow at that. “He was rightfully confident though not to the point of being overly cocky. Every hit resulted in a clean knockout.” John paused for a moment to consider his words before he delivered his final assessment. This next part could decide whether he was banned from ever seeing the other hero again, if he wasn’t careful.

“After our brief initial meeting, I would say he could be a threat if I didn’t have the wind. As it stands, I’d estimate a strong chance of success were we to fight.”

The last bit was meant to be somewhat reassuring. Though Hemogoblin was evidently quite strong, Heir was still stronger, at least going by first impression. There was no telling exactly how much Hemogoblin had been holding back, but John could’ve made hits that powerful half-asleep and without the assistance of the wind. There was also the muscle factor, which, if Hemogoblin’s rather revealing skintight costume wasn’t actually hiding a ton of muscle, the other hero was clearly built more for speed than he was for outright strength. John wasn’t sure what was behind the smirks he had seen or if the other hero had been hiding any actual superpowers which might change the playing field between them, but John currently didn’t consider himself in a position to be worried if it somehow came to blows between them. 

“He’s young, most likely around my age. When we briefly introduced ourselves, he seemed quiet, if not a bit flustered,” John summarized, hoping the lack of personal detail he had gathered alluded to just how little time they had spent together after the fight. The more impersonal he sounded, the less likely his dad was to be angered by John have made contact. “The only thing I might note as being strange is it being unclear how exactly he got in and out of the building. He had no gear but jumped off the side of the building when he departed.”

That was basically all that could be said before getting into his motivation for assisting rather than leaving it to Hemogoblin to handle. He’d save that until after his dad made his comments, if he really did need to justify what it was that he thought he was doing. There was no doubt the man would know why John had stayed, despite it being a reason he had no concept of: if the wind hadn’t pulled him there, there wouldn’t be a need for him.

His dad appeared at the doorway, a thoughtful smile on his lips as he whisked the contents of a mixing bowl. “While I can’t say that I’m not slightly upset that you were unable to prevent meeting with Hemogoblin, I understand that it was unavoidable to meet during these circumstances. You didn’t break your promise to me by actively seeking him out, and that’s all I can ask for. It sounds like you assessed the situation well, and I’m so proud of you for being cautious.”

“Thanks, dad. While I don’t want to think he has any ulterior motives for doing what he’s doing, I’ll be careful if I do meet him again.” His dad nodded curtly and set his attention back to breakfast, heading back into the kitchen. 

That honestly had gone over better than expected.

The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the air, accompanying the sound of something frying. John was right about breakfast from the lineup of ingredients. He was in for a treat; his father had always been an expert in foods that leaned on the side of baking or desserts. Why he was being rewarded with French toast instead of his usual health-conscious meal was the question. It almost felt like his dad was trying to make up for how stern he had been the other day, though it hadn’t been the first time the man had ever been strict like that. 

“Oh, John?” The rather cheerful call came from the kitchen over the sound of frying. “Karkat called for you just before you got up. He’s quite the early riser.”

John got up, heading into the kitchen so he didn’t miss a word. It was in the moments where his enthusiasm got the better of him that he was positive his dad knew what Karkat was to him. Worrying what his father would say when he told him delayed actually making the confession, but he know how poor a job he did at hiding his feelings sometimes. 

Despite John’s hopes that his father was oblivious, he knew there was no chance someone that perceptive hadn’t caught on when his mood suddenly picked up at the mere mention of the troll. He knew his dad hadn’t brought the subject of John’s affections up out of respect, knowing he would confide in him when he was ready. That consideration just made John feel even more guilty that he still couldn’t pick the right words. “What did he say?” 

“He asked for me to pass on a message to you: when you found the effort to roll yourself out of bed, you are to call him. He doesn’t seem to have work today and wanted to know if you’d like to spend time with him.” As his dad turned to glance at him for a moment, a slight smile stretched on the man’s lips. “As if he really needs to ask.”

John couldn’t get to the nearest phone fast enough.

He swiftly picked the phone off its base and began dialing the number by heart. As he pressed the phone to his ear, anticipating the moment when the quiet ringing would give way to Karkat’s usual curt demand of ‘what?’, John bounced on the balls of his feet in barely contained excitement. His dad was right: Karkat never really needed to ask.

The conversation was brief, a quick reiteration of what John’s dad had told him. Karkat didn’t have much to do and was hoping to waste the day with their usual activities of choice, which meant watching movies and reading comics. John fully agreed to the plan, wishing Karkat would say he could be there immediately instead of noon. Their exchange didn’t last more than a couple minutes, but when John put the phone down on the receiver, he felt like his mood had just shot skywards. 

He couldn’t wait.

John spent the rest of breakfast anticipating an afternoon filled entirely with Karkat. Despite being given explicit instructions from the troll that he was to show up no earlier than noon, John still sped through his meal. There was some childish hope in him that if he just did everything quickly, the world would match his pace rather than make the wait seem so unbearably long. He practically inhaled his breakfast with hardly a pause to savor the treat that it was, then proceeded to bounce his legs impatiently as he waited for his dad to finish his own meal. It seemed that his father was purposefully taking impossible lengths of time to drink his coffee, sipping so slowly each time he drew the mug to his mouth that John was positive that he was totally messing with him. He caught that small smile that disappeared behind the cup — totally doing it on purpose.

Deciding that keeping busy would help ease the desire to just head over to Karkat’s immediately after his shower, John set to work on the dishes. He would have dropped the little obligations he had in favor of being with his best friend, but he didn’t want to show up three and a half hours before the troll was expecting him. That was a little too eager, even for him. And even if he were to shirk off his training, there was no guarantee that Karkat would even be there to greet him. It was likely that his friend could have plans for the morning, especially if he was ready to spend the afternoon with John. Weekends tended to be reserved for errands since Karkat insisted that his lusus couldn’t be trusted with simple chores anymore.

Knowing that waiting for the afternoon was the only real option, John sighed and tried to focus on the task of scrubbing the frying pan. At least the combat training he’d be partaking in would make the time go by. That could easily eat up hours, depending on what they’d be focusing on. His dad might also be able to work the knot out from between his back before he headed over to Karkat’s, which John would appreciate. While he tended to inform his friend that any discomfort was a result of too much swim practice, he’d rather not cause Karkat to look at him like he was worried.

“Son, you’ve been at that same pan for two minutes. You might scrub a hole through it at this rate.” John wasn’t aware that his dad had finished his food and had entered the kitchen. He glanced down at the frying pan in his hand and noted with relief that he hadn’t managed to scratch the surface before turning with a sheepish smile. John rinsed the pan out quickly and placed it in the drying rack before wiping his hands on a wash cloth.

“Sorry, I guess I’m just excited to go over to Karkat’s. I didn’t think I would get to see him this weekend, since he didn’t say anything yesterday. I’m really glad I get to, now.” Then John realized then that he hadn’t actually asked for permission to go, feeling his face heat up a few degrees as he stumbled over a quick request. “If, uh, it’s okay with you and I’m allowed to go?”

“Of course. I hope you two have fun.” His dad walked forward to pat his head, ruffling up the already messy locks. John whined, ducking out from under the hand and weaving to the side. “Just call to let me know if you think you’ll be having dinner there or are going to be home late.” John nodded his response, watching his father’s hand in much caution. “Before you go, are you up for a little weapons training?”

John smiled up at his dad; weapons training always made the time fly by. “I’ll go get Casey.”

/ / /

Just as John suspected, the time absolutely flew when he was running through disarming drills and various battle scenarios that went over what to do if he was ever in a situation where he couldn’t draw on the wind. He appreciated that his dad had picked training that required both of their full attentions to actually avoid any serious injuries, rather than the slow routines they often did during the week which allowed John’s mind to wander. Having that point of focus was doing wonders for his awareness of how much time was actually passing. It seemed like barely any time had passed when, two hours later, his dad interrupted his practice of hitting a couple of unlucky training dummies across the room with his warhammer.

Before John left to take a shower and get ready, his dad sat him down to take at look at his back. It was always a concern of his that John was overworking his body, even though John hardly ever complained and neither of them actually knew what John’s physical limitations were. While John insisted that it was more irritating than anything, he also knew he had an exceptionally high threshold for pain. That meant that it could be dangerous to neglect any discomfort, because it could eventually progress into a serious injury with John being none the wiser. While it had yet to be a problem, they both figured that it was best to err on the side of caution. That meant that John found himself being worked over by his dad’s skilled hands every so often. So John answered the usual questions of where the tension was building, what kind of an ache he felt, and how long it had felt like that. While his dad was able to work out the worst of it with his strong hands, he made the decision that what John considered a bit of soreness was enough that he would have to be scheduled in for an actual sports massage from a licensed therapist. Which, really, wasn’t all that unusual. The school liked to provide sessions for their star athletes, anyway.

With his back more or less taken care of for the time being, John found himself with little over half an hour before he was expected at Karkat’s. He hurried upstairs for a much needed shower and was out in under ten minutes. What slowed him down considerably was the sudden inability to decide what he should wear as he stared inside his closet, hair still dripping. He ended up wasting a quarter of an hour just trying to pick his clothes out, even after telling himself that Karkat did not care what he showed up wearing. The troll had seen all his hero shirts over their time together, from the totally awesome to the admittedly lame, and it wasn’t like he often went out and bought new clothes. So with an impatient glance at the clock near his bed, John closed his eyes and reached out blindly as his method of choice. Spiderman themed t-shirt acquired, he matched it with some dark pants and a long sleeved black shirt.

With only a handful of minutes to spare and the risk of being late, John quickly grabbed his cellphone and wallet before he hurried downstairs. After a quick farewell to his dad, he was out the door and running the short distance to Karkat’s house. He pulled at the wind to finish drying his damp hair and it swept up the locks into what he assumed was a serious state of disarray. It pushed at his back, encouraging him to run faster while ever offering up the sky to him.

The offer was tempting. He would love nothing more than to jump off the ground, landing only long enough to pick up Karkat before taking him flying. John wanted nothing more than to be able to share that experience with the person he loved, to be able to hold onto Karkat tightly as they spun through the air, to share the joy he experienced everyday. Above all, he wished he could tell the troll who he was.

A nervous flutter settled in his chest as he ascended the few stairs leading to the landing. A smile involuntarily stretched over his lips as he rung the doorbell, listening to the sudden response of screeching and returned yells from inside the house. It was only a few moments later that the door was flung open and John was treated to the sight of white carapace, Crabdad towering above him in front of the door.

It wasn’t unusual for the custodian to make it to the door first, but his towering frame always registered with John as being slightly intimidating whenever he did. The lusus clacked his claws in the air in rapid succession and made a high, warbling sound that John had always interpreted as a positive greeting. One white claw descended and very gently began fussing with John’s hair while Crabdad turned his head inside the house and seemed to call for Karkat, if Karkat’s name consisted of a brief screech and a warble. John laughed, pushing lightly at the claw with both hands, hardly trying to fend himself from the lusus’s gestures. Karkat would save him from the weird act of affection soon.

“Dad, fucking seriously, could you stop doing this every single time John comes over? Whatever it is you keep trying to do is not working and your massive crab hand is only succeeding in crushing his head. Unless he can magically pull baked goods out of his asshole, he has not brought you any treats today. Shoo, you gargantuan fatass. You are seriously just as bad as the fish.”

Karkat was only partially visible as he came up beside his lusus, pushing at him until he got the idea to move. He clacked again at John before screeching something to Karkat, which the troll just nodded to. Whatever he had agreed to made Crabdad take his leave, retreating back into the house and most likely to his room. When Karkat turned to him, rusty eyes focusing under thin lenses, John felt his heart swell. Ow.

“Sorry about him, for the thousandth time. I tell him to stop every single time but he insists that this is how he is going to greet you. You should really tell him no, or he’s just going to keep it up. Come on, it’s fucking freezing outside.” Karkat moved back so John had room to enter. The hero flicked his eyes quickly up and down the troll’s body as he slipped off his shoes, fully approving of the fact that Karkat kept the house warm enough inside for him to wear short sleeves. He was like a vision in monochrome which made his eyes stand out against the muted choice of clothes; John’s mouth kind of hurt with how wide he was grinning, but he couldn’t help it.

“Well, I think it’s fine. He’s not actually hurting me and he sounds like he’s just really glad to see me. I’ll bring something next time.” Karkat groaned and mumbled something under his breath. It was probably a complaint that John was fueling his lusus’s unhealthy obsession with his baking, not that the troll ever complained when he was gifted with the treats first. “And I won’t have to worry, since you’ll rescue me again. My hero. Should I be swooning?”

Karkat considered the question with a lopsided grin, one tooth sticking out slightly over his bottom lip. “Probably. Enjoy the landing though because I am not going to be catching you. Now come on, you idiot, we have some movies to get through and you are holding us up.” 

With that, the troll turned and walked away, John trailing close behind him. John followed Karkat up the stairs, trying to appreciate what would have been a great view if not for the sheer sagginess of Karkat’s jeans. He took what he got, though, even if it left a lot to the imagination. It would probably be dangerous for his health if Karkat decided to get clothes that actually fit him, anyway. 

Karkat’s room was the same as it ever was, with the only exception over the past year being a dozen more posters tacked up on the walls. Before taking a look at the couple of new additions to the sea of hero pictures, John greeted Sebastian. As expected, he was entirely snubbed by the sizable goldfish, who seemed as though he was too busy swimming through his castle to notice another body had entered the room. Knowing he probably had to make an offering to come close to the fish’s attention, John went back to looking at the posters.

“Oh, that one’s new.” There was another Heir poster, bringing the grand total around the room to four. The format was one John had seen many times before: the hero posed naturally on top of a building, back turned and glancing slightly down and to the side, the lighting so dramatic that he was almost entirely silhouetted. But with the wind whipping around him and Casey held out in one hand it looked like Heir was waiting for the sun to fully set, ready to take off into the sky as soon as it dipped past the horizon. Admittedly, John thought that was a pretty epic picture of himself, clichéd as it was. He felt like it suited him a lot better than some of the posters he had seen Heir on, one or two of which he knew Karkat owned.

“Yeah. As you very well know, I might have a bit of a problem with buying every single Heir poster I see. You don’t want to know how many I have that aren’t hanging, but I assure you its a disgusting number that I should be more ashamed of than I really am. Though you’ll be proud of me to note that, other than the couple of t-shirts and hoodie, I have resisted the urge to squander my money on the things that pop up at the comic book store —or the vast number of fan-made creations available online because I am a pitiful enough fanboy to seek that kind of thing out on a daily basis —that have an Heir theme to them. It’s hard to restrain myself, though; he’s just really fucking cool, you know?”

John felt his cheeks flare, despite having heard Karkat compliment Heir numerous times. Every time, it just felt like he was telling John to his face what he thought of him and not just talking about the hero who had saved him. “So you’ve said.”

“Don’t start with me. Just agree now so I can avoid verbally expelling the mentally crafted essay I’ve fine-tuned to glorious perfection that overviews the points that make Heir a great hero. You know how this ends, with us both thoroughly embarrassed, filled with regret, and a large amount of loathing for past-us for allowing it to happen again.” 

John smiled back at the troll as if he were considering it. He’d give in, though, having been on the receiving end of that rant before when he had not immediately agreed to Karkat’s claims that Heir was the best thing since sliced bread. The side of Karkat that openly gushed about his favorite heroes was painfully adorable, but it was kind of hard to agree with him when he was talking about John’s own alter identity. That would’ve felt weird and a bit narcissistic. 

There was a problem when Karkat showed that hero-worshipping side of himself, however. Its sudden appearance always made John want to run the risk of confessing his feelings and who he truly was, separating the distance between them with a gust of wind while Karkat looked on in shock, and mashing their faces together in what John hoped would be a highly successful first kiss. It was only the thought of how terrible a plan unveiling his biggest secrets could be that made him back out every time, but the scenario never completely left his mind as an unlikely fantasy.

“Right, okay. He’s pretty cool.” Again, it felt weird to acknowledge himself like that, but it was better to do it now so he avoided having to nod along while someone enthusiastically brought up eyewitness accounts and chat-rooms on the internet to support his claims. “Hey, speaking of local heroes, have you heard any news about Hemogoblin?”

“Who?” When John looked over at his friend, Karkat seemed more engrossed with setting up his laptop on the bed than he was at the potential to go over what was sure to prove to be extremely detailed research that he had done on the new hero. John waited for the inevitable break when the troll would start smiling and going over what little he knew about the subject.

“Oh come on, man, don’t be like this. I know you looked him up after I mentioned him yesterday. There’s no chance that you just ignored the fact that there’s a new hero in our city. Worried the new guy will take away some of Heir’s spotlight?” Karkat glared and John felt like he had hit the target dead center.

“It’s hard to say. He sounds pretty interesting, but there’s really not much concrete information on him past the recent news about him and Heir stopping a rather large-scale robbery last night. Heir apparently made the report to the police that Hemogoblin had been there first and seemed fully capable of handling the situation on his own. With Heir saying that and no one being grievously injured, I’d say Hemogoblin should continue to be received positively.”

Karkat paused to lay down on the bed in front of the computer, gesturing for John to do the same. He walked over and shifted beside the troll until they were almost touching, the excuse being that the bed wasn’t that large. Karkat continued as he opened up the first DVD case in a sizable stack; it looked like they were going to run through some of their favorites today.

“There’s so far no real signs that he possesses any superpowers, though, so that could be a concern if he were to come up against an enemy that overpowered or outskilled him in combat. At least that’s the perception on the forums I frequent. There’s speculation that he’s just not using them until he needs to use them, which I guess makes sense. No sense showing off your trump card. The blogs have a lot more but I never feel like I can trust them as reliable. Mostly pictures popping up from camera phones of those who were outside during the attempted robbery and people making... assumptions.”

“Assumptions?” John asked. Karkat fiddled with the CD tray, taking far too much time dropping the movie into it.

“His costume is getting a lot of attention.” Oh. _Oh_. That made sense, and John really couldn’t blame people for noticing. He had found it hard not to stare at what the material clearly mapped out. It had been rather difficult not taking the time to just stop and appreciate how perfectly it fit that lithe body once he had been confirmed as an ally. He idly wondered if he could convince Karkat to show him the pictures he had mentioned later. “Okay, less talking about the brand new, maybe-hero suddenly running around in Heir territory, more Hellboy.”

With that, Karkat finally dropped the DVD in, and hit play.

/ / /

After Ron Perlman and Selma Blair ended the movie with a fiery kiss, Karkat stood up and hopped over John off the bed. He headed over to the bookshelf where he kept his comic books, smiling to himself as he scanned his finger over the many different volumes and collections he owned. John waited, excited to see just what the troll had in store for them. Karkat extracted one book sporting a telltale teal and red motif, holding it up so John could see the issue’s cover. While John didn’t follow _The Ancestors_ series too much, he was gaining quite a bit of knowledge on Karkat’s favorites from the series through their reading sessions.

“The new _Redglare_ came out a couple of days ago. I haven’t had the chance to read it yet. Do you want to?” Personally, John found the heroine’s approach a bit too severe, as she followed the law with no mercy. She was as brutal as any other character in the series, however, cruelly honest, and shockingly intelligent. It was hard for him to really support some of what she did, even if it was just fiction. What John found the most interesting about her was the fact that she did not hide her identity as Redglare, which often lead to her facing more than her fair share of danger.

“For sure!” John excitedly agreed, but It was not the comic he was most interested in. He shifted over so Karkat had room beside him. “Man, they really left her at a cliffhanger last time. I hope she pulls through.”

“Of course she will, since the series is long from over. She hasn’t even been contacted by The Ancestors yet, and they’re not going to kill her off before she gets into the league. Well, they might, but then she could always come back to life. You know how these things work in comic book logic.” Karkat crawled back on the bed and stretched out on his stomach, holding the book open so each of them could take a side. Karkat leaned in to get a better look at the pages, John doing the same.

They often read comics at the same time, especially when something new they both wanted to read came out. While Karkat enjoyed the story, John split his attention between scanning the words and the simple happiness being near the troll brought him. 

Today it seemed impossible to focus on reading, what with his shoulder and hip pressing firmly against Karkat’s. With all he had been thinking and dreaming of Karkat lately, it just felt like it was too much to have him so close and yet not nearly close enough. Way too much. The heat next to him made him want to draw himself even closer, pull in, and flush his body against the troll. He bit his lip, shifting his hips and trying to wriggle away only to have Karkat snap at him to stop moving.

John managed to catch Karkat asking if he was done with the page and he absentmindedly agreed, stealing a glance at Karkat’s profile as he focused down at the page. It was painful how close their faces were to each other’s and how little effort it would take to lean in, tilt Karkat’s head with his own, and press their lips together. The temptation was almost overwhelming as he continued to breath in a smell that was just so distinctly _Karkat_. God, he wanted it so badly.

He could feel his breath start to get heavy and recognized with some part of his brain that he was just outright starting at his best friend’s face. But tearing his gaze away seemed like an impossible task, and it took everything in him not to make his desire known. The troll was too engrossed in reading to notice John leaning in just a little bit more, his heart beating like a drum inside his chest. The idea of it was so simple, and would be even easier to execute. It was just a matter of closing the small distance between them to finally kiss the troll that he was madly in love with, just a few inches...

“Alright, post-comic analysis. What did you think about the fight after Mindfang was revealed to have been the one manipulating others into committing the crimes? Honestly, I know she’s Redglare’s speculated arch-nemesis and as such she’s going to get a lot of face time, but sometimes I just want it to not be Mindfang behind things. Sometimes I just want it to be just some psychotic person for an arc and not this complicated web of seemingly random uses of mind control to confuse and lure in Redglare. It actually is getting to the point of being obvious when something seems off about a criminal. That being said, the actual fight was kind of epic and I was not expecting the arm thing, or that Redglare actually caught her.”

“Uh huh.”

“John?” Karkat sounded concerned and John blinked, realizing that his face was almost uncomfortably close to the troll’s. At least, uncomfortably close for friends. Had Karkat chosen that moment to look away from the comic and turn his head to glare at his friend, he probably would’ve ended up accidentally pressing their faces together. It took John several rough seconds of exerting his willpower before he pulled back to their usual range, smiling sheepishly. “Where is your fucking thinkpan, today? Normally you’d be all over this shit, especially after how brutal the arm dismemberment and disfigurement was. I was expecting you to go off on how that all could have been avoided, or something.”

“Ah, sorry. I just have a lot on my mind right now. I didn’t really focus too much on the comic.” Karkat huffed, closing the book and laying it carefully on the bed. At least it didn’t seem as though he had caught on to what John had been about to do. Thoughts of what could have happened if he had followed through with the kiss and how Karkat would have taken it clouded his mind. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear the possible outcomes; there was no use dwelling on what could have been turned into a terrible or wonderful decision. 

“Typical Egbert, drifting off into headspace while he leaves the rest of us firmly down in reality. You’ve been doing that a lot more lately, actually. Did you want to talk about it?” 

When Karkat turned to look at him, one aristocratic eyebrow raised slightly and a concerned quirk to his lips, John realized that he did. He really did. He wanted to say what Karkat did to him, how he twisted up his heart, how he made his stomach feel like it did when he was flying, and made it hard to focus on anything but him. He wanted to tell him he adored how truly kind Karkat was despite how he tried to be aloof, how his verbose way of speaking was just endearing most of the time, and even his commonly-thrown insults were something he looked forward to because it was all just so uniquely Karkat. He wanted to say he was Heir, that he was sorry for hiding it for so long, but he’d swear to make it up to him. Maybe with flying and kisses.

What he wanted was to tell Karkat that he loved him.

Was this the time to do it?

John took a deep breath, preparing himself, as Karkat anticipated some kind of answer. The troll was starting to look a little concerned at how long John was taking to say something, though the look of patience never left his face. That alone made John’s desire to confess even stronger. That their faces were still practically inches apart and their bodies still touching didn’t hurt, either.

“I-,” he paused, closing his eyes and gathering himself. “Karkat, the thing is, that I...I...” John sighed, and turned his head away. No. He couldn’t do it yet. He still didn’t feel ready to handle the rejection if it came, especially because it likely would. Karkat had told him that he wasn’t interested in anyone they knew, a statement which also included John. If he accepted what Karkat had told him as true, then it was a reality that he had to prepare for the possibility of heartbreak before he chose to let his deepest feelings out. 

So instead, he shrugged his shoulders and tried to make it sound less than it was, plastering a tired smile onto his face. “You know, it’s not a big deal. I’ll tell you about it some other time. Want to go to the comic book store at the mall and see if they have any Hemogoblin stuff, yet? Despite you being an Heir snob, I for one think we should support our new local hero.”

Karkat continued to stare at him with his eyebrow still raised, a questioning look in his eyes as he searched John’s face for signs of deception or distress. It made John feel better knowing that his best friend cared enough to be that persistent, but this was one time that he wished the troll would just let things lie as they were. Perhaps sensing John’s mood, Karkat pulled back and pushed himself off the bed, rolling onto the floor and to his feet without a sound.

“...Fine.”

/ / /

The usual comic shop that John and Karkat frequented was located on a busy street just outside of the city. It was a little bit out of the way and wasn’t the closest location to their neighborhood that carried similar merchandise, but they were dedicated patrons for one very specific reason: the shop always carried a large selection of real-hero merchandise. Apart from the usual list of series from major publishers, the store supported indie and even one-off materials depicting the not entirely legal images of heroes like Heir. While some of the world’s masked men and women took offense to others profiting off of their identities, John didn’t mind it. It was actually pretty awesome to have people showing interest in him enough that they wanted to make and own things with his likeness on them, despite his lack of public appearances.

Though some of the Heir posters that existed were kind of...well, questionable was putting it politely.

John flipped the large panel of the poster display to the next one, a big named heroine from the New York striking a trademarked pose while dressed in a whole lot of fuchsia. There were some heroes that were definitely more open to being marketable, it seemed. As he turned the remainder of the display’s panels, he felt disappointed for not coming across one of Hemogoblin. Granted, the general populace had only become aware of him very recently, as in that morning. Unless someone he saved happened to have been an artist or he had a very dedicated fan, the likelihood of John snapping up a poster of his fellow crimefighter at this stage was slim to none.

He turned his attention to the display Karkat had been skimming through, grey fingers now stilled on the panel corner. Wanting to see what had caught his friend’s attention, John temporarily abandoned the search for anything relating to Hemogoblin. It didn’t take long for him to realize that Karkat was lingering on another Heir poster, too caught up in gazing at the detail of it to notice that John was standing behind him.

The image was certainly striking, the setting ablaze and seemingly made up of more fire than room. The building was straining, paint peeling and dark smoke obscuring any sign of a ceiling. Heir floated in the centre of the scene with his arms outstretched, twisting the blaze with the wind in a way that was more artistic than practical and choking the air from the flames.

“I can’t help it,” Karkat said softly, eyes still locked on the poster. “I can’t help but want to buy anything I see with him on it, even though every single thing is just an illustration or photo-manipulation and not really Heir. When I think about the fact that he’s the only reason I’m alive today, that he saved me, I feel that I should be thanking him somehow. Buying posters of him and blogging isn’t nearly enough, but I have to content myself with being a fucking fanboy since I don’t know if I’ll get to ever see him again.”

“You don’t know that, Karkat. You might get to meet him.” John worried his lip, wondering about fulfilling Karkat’s wish and about just how dangerous it would be for him to actually visit his friend for one evening. He could call Karkat to meet him somewhere, then say he was running late and drop down as Heir, pretending that the wind had drawn him to the location. Karkat would finally get to say what he needed to say to the hero and that would be it. Just once would probably be enough. John was seriously considering the possibility when the troll turned, a somewhat sad smile on his face. 

“I bet he’d be really happy to know you support him. Maybe he’s seen some of the stuff you’ve said about him online, since he might check to see what people think of him.”

“Maybe, yeah.” John’s heart stalled with how genuinely happy Karkat looked before it started back up, sporadically skipping in a way that made him hold his breath. Karkat was his Kryptonite, there was no getting around that. It was taking considerable effort not to tip forward and press a kiss over those smiling lips. They were standing in the perfect position for it. He wanted to draw the troll into his arms and run his fingers through his hair and just never let him go. It was beginning to feel like not having Karkat might just kill him, but following through with his hopes was a terrifying prospect.

John tore his eyes away out of necessity, knowing he wouldn’t naturally stop staring at the troll unless he stopped himself. Just past Karkat, one of the store employees was finishing rolling out a few posters, opening a third display to hang them up in. What caught his attention was the one she had just put up. It was of a figure seeming to blend into the shadows, the flickers of red and a flash of white teeth enough for John to focus on it. Hemogoblin.

Freezing in place as he took in the surprisingly accurate depiction of the new hero, John couldn’t help but appreciate the sheer amounts of _sex appeal _the artist had managed to capture. The brightness of his eyes stood out against the dark poster, alight and burning as they seemed to gaze straight out at John. He was wearing a smirk as he tilted his head back, drawing attention to the fact that his costume was zipped down slightly to better expose his neck and collarbone. The other hand was casually raised, a finger beckoning the viewer forward and—__

—okay, John needed that poster immediately.

He grinned as he looked back to Karkat, who was occupying himself with pulling out the Heir poster he had been wanting. “But hey, just because you want to support Heir doesn’t mean you can’t also support the new guy, too.”

Karkat raised an eyebrow in question and John nodded his head forward in the direction of the other display. When the troll turned he gasped in clear surprise. John laughed at the reaction, heading over for a closer look with Karkat close behind. The closer he got, the more he was sure he’d be purchasing the print regardless of whatever it cost.

“No fucking way, I can't even fathom much less accept that this can be a thing so soon,” Karkat said as John was going through the rack the employee had only just been filling—she had stepped to the side to let them browse, giving them a quick hello when she recognized their faces, before pretending to look busy—in order to fish out a copy of the poster. Prize in hand, John wondered where he was going to hang the soon-to-be new addition to his collection before noticing Karkat seemed still very much surprised.

“I guess someone must have seen him before the robbery last night and got inspired. If the design was ready, they could have just done a small run at a print shop? I don’t know. However it happened, I’m buying this right now and it is going up on my wall as soon as I get home. Where’s the shopkeep? I have money to throw at him.”

“God, John, you're like a wriggler in a confectioner's shop. I can't fucking take you anywhere.” Karkat slowly knelt down, pulling out his own copy of the poster. John beamed at him when he stood back up, the troll shooting his friend a challenging, and rather flustered, look. “Don’t start with me. It’s much more shocking that you’re taking interest in our local heroes than it is for me to put my allegiance temporarily aside in order to purchase another hero’s poster. You hardly ever want to discuss Heir with me despite your insistence that you are a fan of what he is selflessly doing for everyone, and when you do, you just let me do all the talking.”

“Well, you usually do all the talking regardless, dude,” John laughed, trying to hide how nervous he felt with a slight jab. Whenever Karkat brought him up it was hard to monitor and censor himself. He hated doing that, but he couldn’t let out information on a whim that a regular citizen wouldn’t know. Being aloof and letting Karkat run the subject into its eventual exhaustion was his usual method. “And you know I like Heir, it’s just I try to evenly distribute my attention where you kind of hone in. But I take it you were making a fuss over nothing and you’re actually okay with Hemogoblin too?”

“Fuck you.” The sheer conviction behind those two words made the shop employee jump. Karkat didn’t notice as he headed towards the cash register, a poster in each hand. “I have a stronger connection to Heir for obvious reasons, but it’s not like I’m going to just ignore this new guy. Now let’s buy these things already and get some lunch. I know you’re hungry.”

/ / /

They stopped at a burger place on the way back to Karkat’s house. Despite John insisting he wasn’t that hungry —despite the fact that he was, having skipped his accustomed lunch time to make sure he arrived punctually at his friend’s house— Karkat caught the lie, just like he always did, and made the executive decision to pull his car over at the first place that wasn’t a huge fast food chain. Karkat said that there was only so low they could go when it came to their eating-out habits.

Like John, Karkat usually made a very respectable effort to eat healthy, especially considering he was solely in charge of grocery shopping in his home. John didn’t know if he could resist the temptation of just picking up the things he craved if his dad let him handle that task. Oddly enough, though, when John and Karkat came together, they would toss their usual worries about proper nutrition to the wind. There was something kind of awesome about keeping a small secret between them from both their dads, even if it was just something as dumb as eating the occasional cheeseburger.

Or watching Karkat suck salt and oil off of his fingers after eating french fries, though that was John’s own guilty pleasure.

“Seriously, what are you looking at now?” Karkat questioned after cleaning his index finger with a swipe of his tongue. John laughed, embarrassed to be caught and knowing full well there was no way to deny where his eyes had focused. It didn’t really matter, though, it wasn’t the first time that he had been caught.

“Spacing out again, sorry. I guess I was looking at you. You know, they have napkins on the table for a reason, Karkat.” He made a point of taking a paper napkin from the little metal dispenser pushed against the side of their booth, wiping his fingers until they felt somewhat cleaner. He’d have to make a stop in the restroom before they left to wash them properly, but at least me made his point.

“And not enjoy every second of greasy glory? Fuck you and fuck your impeccable table manners. I came here to savour and take part in the challenge of endless fries and a burger with a calorie count probably in the quadruple digits. Thanks for the tip on the etiquette, but I will damn well enjoy my artery-clogging meal in any which way I please, which includes cherishing every last drop of grease.” Karkat licked his thumb for good measure before grabbing a couple more fries off his plate. John laughed and stole one despite having his own, just to see the little glare the troll shot his way. He was already on his third serving —Karkat took the ‘endless’ claim seriously. He probably could fit in another plate before his stomach protested against the sheer amount of starches it was being filled with.

As he waited for Karkat to finally decide that he was satisfied with the dent he had made in the restaurant’s potato supply, John remembered something he’d meant to ask the troll earlier. “You know, my swim meet is next Saturday. You up for tagging along and playing cheerleader, again?” Ultimately, John knew Karkat’s answer before he even had to ask, but he very much enjoyed the troll’s wordy way of getting to the ‘yes’.

“I honestly see no point. Every time I go you splash around faster than the other soaked idiots and do your little butterfly stroke thing to victory. Then they pretend the tears that are a byproduct of their crushing defeat are just the water and they’re not a huge embarrassment to their schools for losing. It’s depressing to watch you destroy their dreams of gaining a scholarship because they can’t paddle around in liquid quick enough. Congratulations on being the champion of doggy paddle, or whatever it is you do in overly-chlorinated water someone probably urinated in.” 

John decided that level of sass just lost Karkat one more fry, which he also quickly dipped in the sizable mound of ketchup flooding the troll’s plate. “Remind me that I am going to actually teach you how to swim this summer. Your job will not be a good enough excuse this time. You are going to go in the water, you are going to get wet, and you’re going to like it. Until then, come on. You can support me.”

Karkat sighed, shrugging in a way that made John hesitate for a moment. “The reason I don’t like going isn’t because I don’t know how to do it, asshole.”

“Oh? Is it because you’re embarrassed about seeing all of this body glistening wet, Karkat?” John wiggled his eyebrows for good measure, wondering if his actual attempts at flirting would always just be shrugged off without question. Karkat grinned, though, reaching over the table to shove John firmly in the shoulder.

“Fine. If you stop being such a fucking doofus, I’ll go. On second thought, because that would require you to go against your very nature, I will come watch you perform your horizontal water-running out of the goodness of my own heart. And for a pie.” Karkat Vantas struck a hard bargain, indeed.

“You have yourself a deal.” John grinned, getting a handshake for good measure. It looked like he already had something to look forward to for the next weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SM: Alright, first off, my apologies for the lateness of this chapter. This time can be blamed completely on me. Work has been keeping me busy practically at all hours, and I've only just now had the time to get some editing in. Took the entire Saturday to get it ready, but here it is! I hope you enjoyed. As always, make sure you [follow us on Tumblr](http://realmenweartights.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Oh! And as an additional note, we just hit over 1,000 followers on Tumblr. We haven't announced this on the blog, yet, but that means that we're going to have a HUGE giveaway soon, complete with art prints, a commission from Panic, _actual trading cards_ featuring characters from the story, a custom-made Hemogoblin shirt, and maybe even a mini-fic commission from Kel! Make sure you're following us on Tumblr so you can get the scoop when that happens!
> 
> See you guys next time~
> 
> Chief Writer - Bananaramses  
> Plot/Editor - SergeantMeow  
> Illustrator - Panicismyrain


	6. In Which Heir Accidentally Goes on a Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swim meets, food fights, and superheroes, oh my~

 

  


_  
**1 week later**  
_

/ / /

John took position on the starting block, ready to dive into the clear water below him as soon as he heard the buzzer signaling the start of his race. It was pretty much expected for him to win this heat, the 500-yard freestyle, just as he had won his other solo event, though he knew he shouldn’t be cocky. Someone could always pull a surprise victory despite his status as undefeated.

There was a very simple reason that John loved this sport: when surrounded by his peers and other civilians, swimming was as close to flying as John could have. That moment when he pushed off against the pool wall always felt similar to taking off into the sky, but at the same time, the sensation of it was very different. When he submerged himself fully and glided weightlessly through the water, the sounds above and around him muffled and distant, he felt like he was in his own world. It wasn’t the sky, but the water was an acceptable substitute.

The buzzer rang out and John dove down into the waiting pool alongside seven other swimmers, the cheers of those in the stands becoming a muted blur as his vision tunneled and he could see nothing but an advancing wall of blue.

Despite having a less than exemplary attendance record for afterschool training, John was considered the team’s ace, and for good reason. Simply put, he won his school medals.

John penetrated the surface of the water seamlessly, his arms extended and abdominals clenched tight. He traveled under the water for as long as his form would allow before he surfaced, his arms tearing through the water, pulling him forward at a speed which was envied by his teammates and hated by his competitors. That speed had actually earned John the honor of being the holder of several state high school records, a fact which had made John’s dad order him to start holding himself back slightly, at least enough to settle down the scouts which invariably showed up to search for potential talent. Despite that, John was still unmatched in his speed.

John set his pace, pulling himself through the water and pushing his strokes to be longer, forcing his limbs to move faster. When he turned his head to draw in quick breaths, John could tell that his competitors and teammates were beginning to slow down from their top speed, each of them having had to push themselves hard from the get-go in order to attempt to catch up to the breakneck speeds that John always strove to maintain. In any other swimming competition, that would’ve been considered foolish, but John’s reputation for being able to set a speed and maintain it through an entire heat preceded him well. Because John was the only one actually capable of maintaining such an exhausting pace, however, he knew he had the race in the bag from the beginning, as arrogant as that sounded in his head.

John tapped out almost a full length before anyone else, with a time that would have earned him another spot in the state’s record books, had he not already been the record holder. John waited for the rest of the swimmers to finish before, grinning broadly, he pulled himself out of the pool to a round of supporting cheers and applause. It felt great to be acknowledged for something he had done well, even if the meet didn’t really count for anything but bragging rights.

The tight swim cap was the first thing to come off after John was out of the water with his goggles being slipped down immediately after. He scanned the bleachers set up along the ‘home’ side of the room, searching for a familiar face among the dozens of strangers and acquaintances. While his usual biggest supporter, his dad, had had something unexpected come up at work that he’d urgently needed to attend to, John could always count on at least one person to show up to his meets. Despite how much resistance the troll always put up and the insistence that he could care less about John’s swimming, Karkat was dependably supportive when it came to John’s favourite pastime.

Supportive, but not always attentive. When John finally spotted the familiar nubby-horned troll sitting near the very end of the bleachers, it was to discover that Karkat had his nose buried in a thick biology textbook. The troll glanced at John from over his textbook just as the results of the heat were announced over the speakers, mouthing him a short ‘woo’ before immersing himself again in his book.

The rest of the more boisterous support and attention didn’t even matter to John; Karkat’s simple support went further than any of the other praise possibly could have. Karkat might not have cheered loudly or even bothered himself to put down a book to clap, but he had offered John a very slight smile, and that was enough. It was smiles like those that made John’s heart ache and skip and flop ungracefully all over itself.

John picked up his towel from his team’s bench and quickly pat-dried himself off before he slung it over his shoulder. After a few solemn congratulations from the other school’s team and more eager slaps on the back from his own, John found himself free until his two relay events. While the girls did their own 500-yard freestyle race, the guys started a ten minute break to recover from the longest event. John was intent on spending the majority of those few minutes talking to Karkat.

Walking to the stands always felt a little bit off-putting, for obvious reasons. While the whole more-than-half-naked in sort-of-public thing took a bit of getting used to, John still felt a bit embarrassed by some of the looks that were shot his way as he approached. Swimming required one to eliminate drag, which meant swim caps were a must and no loose-fitting trunks were allowed. Suffice to say, while his lycra shorts did their job to make him more hydrodynamic, they kind of clung a whole lot to every little thing. He didn’t like catching the occasional downwards glance, feeling like the offending gaze was sizing him up, but none of his teammates seemed bothered enough to wrap their towels around their waists, so he would persevere. Talking to Karkat was definitely worth the discomfort, anyway.

The next set of swimmers were getting lined up on their starting blocks by the time that John made his way over to the bottom-most bleacher on the far left where Karkat had chosen to perch himself, so most of the crowd was focusing its attention back on the pool. He still got a few lingering looks here and there, but he supposed that couldn’t be helped. Karkat, as he’d figured he’d be, was oblivious to the whole thing.

“Tell me what assignment could be so important that you didn’t actually watch my race?” John asked, his smile destroying any attempt at being serious. He knew that being overly antagonistic with the troll was likely to cause him to start ranting, but sometimes John preferred it that way. “Because, from the looks of how cheering for me was an afterthought, you were not paying any attention at all.”

Karkat quirked an eyebrow and shut his textbook with a sharp snap before he offered John his reply. “Oh, I’m so fucking sorry your sport of choice is the single most boring activity to actually witness apart from watching paint dry, especially when every single asshole here knows the outcome of the race as soon as you saunter over to the side of the pool like a smug douche ready to add another notch in your victory belt. When I glance up, you are doing the exact same thing in a different point in the pool, which is flailing around very quickly. Excuse me if I don’t find this the single most exciting thing to have ever graced my field of vision. Anyway, why don’t they just enter you in all the events so that they can hoard every single prize known to swimmers and be done with it?”

John pouted, putting on his best fake hurt expression, though Karkat doubtlessly saw through it with ease. “You know I can only be in four, I told you that.” John paused, fully processing Karkat’s rant. “And who the hell saunters?”

Karkat sneered. “Stop trying to get lippy with me to satisfy your twisted verbal sado-masochistic thing. I am not actively going to fuel that into being an actual thing that happens because it is dumb. And that kernel of extremely significant information must have been pushed out of my thinkpan for something with a higher value of importance, like what they were serving in the cafeteria on the day you decided to inform me on your sport’s bullshit rules.”

“Stop being an asshole and congratulate me,” John laughed, beaming his brightest grin at the troll. The shit that came out of Karkat’s mouth sometimes was wonderful.

Karkat smacked John lightly on the shoulder, his stubborn scowl twitching as he strained against a smile. The troll shrugged, absently adjusting his glasses with his thumb and middle finger before schooling his expression and shooting a glare John’s way. The look was much more affectionate than it was seething, but any observer to their exchange most likely saw anger.

“Congratulations. You successfully did not drown. In the place of your father, I think I am bound to let you know that you do not even understand how very proud I am of you in this moment of our lives. If I had a camera, I would be taking your picture just so that I could place it in a gigantic tome of a scrapbook and write depressingly sappy and supportive aphorisms below it to ensure you that you are loved, your actions and achievements are not insignificant trifles that will be completely forgotten to the ambivalent stare of time itself, and that I am a good father because of my insistence in letting you know this twenty times a day. Are you happy with that, or do you want me to see if I can start everyone cheering again to better fuel your enormous ego?”

John snorted. “I may take you up on that round of applause later, but I think the ego is fine for now. I suppose you’ve earned a pie for your efforts.” The usual shared laughter that tended to follow the end of their exchanges didn’t come, nor did an expected comment about being rewarded with baked goods like some kind of obedient animal. Instead, Karkat’s eyebrows fell as he looked to John’s right and stood up, crossing his arms and giving off the impression of being none too impressed.

“Okay, you have been standing there for five minutes without even fucking trying to assert yourself despite wringing your hands like you desperately have something to say.”

John blinked, turning his head to notice there was someone standing a bit off to the side behind him, watching the two of them nervously. The hero shot the other an apologetic look and noted that he seriously needed to work on the tunnel vision he had when Karkat was around. If he ran into the troll as Heir, it could be dangerous for his attention to be solely fixed on one person. Before he could say anything, Karkat continued.

“Wow. I am throwing you a bone out of sheer pity of your miserable attempt at making your presence known, and yet you continue to hover there looking like a skittish hopbeast debating whether to run or defecate all over itself as it stares down the barrel of a shotgun. What is it that you want?” The person, a troll who looked about their age and who was probably from their grade, jumped at Karkat’s demanding tone. Evidently he had not had many run-ins with the other troll to know that the bark was Karkat’s usual comfortable way of speaking to others.

“Uh, well.” John connected the vaguely familiar troll to a couple of classes they had shared in the past, though their schedules did not currently overlap. The troll also seemed to be on good terms with a couple of the swim team members from what John had seen, though he had never sat with them during lunch the year John had. They had also never exchanged anything beyond simple greetings before, so John’s guess as to what he wanted was as good as Karkat’s.

“Could I talk to you alone for a second?” the troll asked John very quickly, teeth nervously working on his lower lip after the sudden string of words.

“You have got to be shitting me with this.” Karkat actually smacked himself on the forehead, as if he couldn’t believe the conclusion he had come to after that one line. John had no idea where this was going, but he was starting to get a little worried. “You actually are trying to ask him out? Do you even know him at all? I can see the outwards appeal, of course, but honestly, do you even know what you’re wanting here?”

Wait. What?

John must have somehow missed a huge chunk of the memo which led up to this troll wanting to date him, because as far as he could tell, all that the other had asked was if he could talk to John alone. That had seemed like a completely innocent request, but Karkat hadn’t seemed to think so. And then there was the highlighted footnote that Karkat thought he was physically attractive in some capacity, which he just couldn’t help but latch onto.

“Yeah, I think I do. Or at least I’d really like to get to know him.” The slight glare the troll had been shooting Karkat turned soft as he glanced shyly to John before flickering his gaze back to the ground. “I’m not trying to step into your relationship...um, whatever kind it is. Like, if you’re together romantically, I didn’t mean to offend you with this, or anything. I tried asking around before even thinking of doing this, but no one honestly knows what you two are.”

It was becoming more and more apparent that John was just a spectator in this conversation as Karkat again beat him to the punch, the words flowing from his friend’s mouth before John could even formulate a proper response.

“He’s my best friend,” Karkat spat, his eyes narrowed dangerously. “And honestly, I don’t think you’re his type.”

John knew that people, trolls especially, could be possessive of those that they were close to, but he hadn’t really seen it firsthand apart from in school where the occasional baring of teeth or snapping remark meant that others should back off. He had never been in the middle of it, and had never seen Karkat become territorial over him before. It was...flattering, in a way. A bit scary, in that Karkat looked like he was about to pounce, but flattering.

John turned to his friend and threw a hand up, touching Karkat’s chest lightly in a gesture that was just as much to keep Karkat in place as it was to feel the troll’s body pressing against him. “Okay, simmer down. I don’t know what this is all about, but I’m just going to go talk to him for a bit, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“For fuck’s sake, John. You're going to reject him regardless of how much he gushes over your athletic figure or how admirable it is that you’re academically superior to every single one of your peers, so you may as well do it quickly and painlessly right now instead of prolonging the inevitable burning of his delicate emotions. You are just giving him false hope that it could work, so, as noble as it is to try and be sensitive in this situation, you are only feeding the flames at this point.”

“Karkat,” John stated, his tone serious as he added a little pressure to the hand against Karkat’s chest. The resistance his hand met was surprisingly firm for how scrawny Karkat’s build suggested he’d be. There was a huff and a roll of rusty eyes, but Karkat didn’t further debate John’s decision to talk to the troll in private. They both knew the decision John would ultimately make when the confession came. John couldn’t help but look over his shoulder as he led the other troll off to a quiet spot away from the bleachers. The glare which followed them almost looked worried.

 

Karkat watched as John gently rested a hand on the intruding troll’s elbow as he led him away. He trailed over them as John directed the other down the room, away from the boisterous and irritating chatter of the stands, so they could be free to talk all about misguided feelings and nonsensical, doomed romance in a more quiet part of the public space. It was impossible for him to look away and pretend to be interested in his textbook once again.

The troll glanced back at him, eyes swimming with nerves, fear, and a hope that would soon be decimated into crushing failure as he mourned the loss of what he never could have. Or that’s at least what Karkat wanted to happen. He wanted the other’s shy advances to be turned down by his best friend, for John to remain uninterested in the type of romance that so readily claimed the attention of their peers. He wanted John to be contented by sharing in one true, deep friendship, never wishing to expand his desires into finding someone more. Not until Karkat could better prepare himself to the thought of sharing the human, at least. He just wasn’t ready to lose John to some coy troll who fluttered his pretty eyelashes at the human.

John was the closest Karkat had come to a true moirail, a kindred spirit that just seemed to understand him and accept him, like nobody else did, not even Kanaya. The thought of him having to share John’s attention with another was unbearable.

From the angle of their bodies, Karkat couldn’t see their faces to read their expressions, leaving him clueless as to the direction of their conversation. Looking over to the back of the other troll’s head, Karkat could almost imagine a smirk replacing the nervous wobble of his lips, the terrified eyes hardening in a mocking way that just confidently expressed his intent to steal John.

He glowered while trying to convince himself that he knew John well enough to know how he’d handle the confession. Honest and genuine, John would tell him that he didn’t feel like he could give a relationship the time it deserved. Flattered for the unexpected interest, he would awkwardly stumble through a rejection that just might not come out with all the right words but it would be all John.

John returned to the bleachers alone about two minutes later, by Karkat’s count, wearing a frown that didn’t suit him. “Well?” Karkat prompted a bit too readily, hoping for an answer similar to the scenario he had envisioned. “Did you turn him down nicely? I didn’t hear any wailing sobs from that direction, so it couldn’t have gone that dreadfully.”

John’s frown deepened, his mood apparently soured. “Okay, just stop it, Karkat. I don’t know what the hell is up with you right now, but it’s actually none of your business whether I rejected him or not. Even if you were right about me turning him down this time, you don’t need to be a dick about it.” John paused, taking a deep breath. “There were a lot of reasons why I didn’t accept his advances, but if I had, Karkat? What if I accept someone’s offer, next time? Are you going to get like this anytime someone is, you know, actually interested in me like that?”

Shit, John was mad at him about this. He was upset enough to say something about it in front of what few other people were around them, rather than taking him aside to talk. Karkat could feel his defenses rising, his need to lash back with more words than necessary to protect what he was feeling, but he knew that wasn’t going to help. John wanted the reason for the behavior and Karkat wasn’t sure if he could explain that had John been a troll and not a human, they’d be openly known as moirails. And moirails looked out for each other, even if that meant screening the other’s potential mates.

Instead, he hung his head, biting back word-vomit that would push their dialogue into serious argument and trying instead for honesty. “I’m sorry. You’re—fuck, saying this out loud is hard enough without the goddamn audience,” he grumbled, offering a glare to the person nearest them, the female troll quickly turning her head as if to somehow show that he hadn’t blatantly been eavesdropping on their conversation, “—really important to me. Even though you knew that already, I’ve never really told you that you are. I don’t want someone else coming into the picture, but if they’re going to, I just want whoever you want to be with to be worthy of you and actually want you for all of your dorky charm.” The words came too fast, probably too open for the amount of eyes on them from nosy bystanders with nothing better to do than gawk at a troll expressing his feelings, but at least he had gotten through them.

Karkat looked up, expecting that to have not to been enough to explain how he had acted. John’s eyes softened almost the very instant that their gazes met, his expression melting into something much warmer. “Apology accepted.” The forgiveness came so quickly that Karkat was almost surprised, but to the troll, it was just further evidence of their obviously strong and fated moirallegiance. “It will be revoked if you don’t cheer for me in the next events. I expect some pretty loud clapping and for you to make a general ruckus. Deal?” That bastard.

/ / /

“Thanks for dropping me off, Karkat.”

“I drove you to the meet, John. It wouldn’t be very courteous for me to make you walk back here, especially after you invited me over for lunch in gratitude for my premium cheering abilities, now would it? I think they may as well tell our school’s substandard cheerleading team to hand in their frilly, black pom-poms after the exceptional spectacle I made demonstrating the very definition of the word ‘cheer’. It was so wondrous an event that we should never speak of it again for as long as we live. Ever.”

John wasn’t sure if Karkat’s idea of support really fell in the same category as another’s, but he had definitely made good on the condition of making a ruckus. He had also been able to hear the troll’s shouting from the water during his two team event, so all in all Karkat held up his end of the bargain by being loud and at least pretending to be enthusiastic. Not that John hadn’t been willing to forgive his best friend the very moment he had ducked his head in apology.

Karkat’s reasoning hadn’t been hard for the hero to understand. John didn’t want to share Karkat with anyone else, either, so how could he possibly be upset about the troll acting up for that very reason? Just thinking about Karkat having a partner that wasn’t him made John’s stomach start to churn. He wanted Karkat to be happy, of course, but it didn’t mean he would eagerly accept that kind of heart-wrenching change with open arms. If someone asked Karkat out while John was around, he didn’t know if he could handle himself well, let alone be polite about it. It was a bit worrying to think about it, now, since he probably wouldn’t deal with it any better than Karkat had, if not a whole lot worse. The last thing you wanted to do when you could summon forth hurricanes and tornadoes was to lose your cool.

“Dude, I know.” John unlocked the door, heading inside and gesturing for Karkat to follow before he continued with his thought. “If any of them had been there, they would always know that they couldn’t possibly encourage people like you can. I mean, I’m pretty sure they’re not allowed to scream profanities about going faster, so there’s that, at least. We clearly wouldn’t have won without that happening.”

Karkat punched him in the shoulder as they rounded the corner into the living room, just in time for John’s dad to see the hit. The man was sitting off to one side of the room in the worn armchair that John suspected was much older than him, fingers paused over a stack of loose pages tucked into a manila folder on his lap. From this distance, John could only make out that the document contained highlighted lines of typed text and the occasional written side note on the margins. His dad carefully closed the file, smiling up at his son and the troll who hadn’t noticed him yet.

He cleared his throat loudly, causing the troll to jump in surprise. As he noticed just who else was in the room with them, Karkat managed to change directions midway through his favorite curse word, instead exclaiming a quick _‘fudge’_. John wasn’t sure which he found more amusing, Karkat’s immediate attempts at being uncharacteristically polite in front of his dad, or his dad’s regular attempts to get the troll to drop the formality.

“Hey, dad,” John said, while Karkat offered a quiet and entirely too stiff ‘hello, Mr. Egbert’. Seriously, it was ridiculous how quiet the troll could get when he wasn’t entirely comfortable with someone. For the first few months of their friendship, nearly every time Karkat came over to the house, John’s dad would say that he was free to call him by his first name. It still had yet to be something Karkat was comfortable enough with. Since the troll tended to end his visits before his dad returned in the evenings, he really hadn’t had enough face time with the parent to just be himself yet.

“I hope it’s okay that I invited Karkat over for lunch. I thought you had to go to work today?”

“Of course that’s fine; Karkat is always welcome here.” John noticed the small smile on the troll’s lips at the warmth and ease of those words, his friend most likely unaware that he was actually allowing his guard to slip. “And it was a relatively quick fix. I spent more time driving there and back than actually in the office. Though I did have to bring some of it home with me.” The folder was raised to punctuate the statement. “I’m sorry for missing your meet. How did it go?”

“It was good. Karkat cheered us to sweet victory,” John said, leaving out any of the real details. Having been to so many competitions before, his dad knew that his meets tended to end in him either winning or holding back just enough to tie. He also didn’t feel like it was necessary to fill him in on the unexpected confession with Karkat standing right there, either, so there really wasn’t much left to say.

John’s stomach growled, pulling him from that tangent and reminding him of his purpose for having invited Karkat over in the first place. “I’m pretty hungry, so we should probably get started on lunch.”

Despite not having done it all that often, it was always an experience cooking with Karkat. John had learned early on that his friend’s strong suit was in preparation, like dicing up vegetables and mixing up whatever John threw together. The actual cooking was best left to the human of the pair, because the troll could get pretty frustrated when they followed a recipe but things didn’t turn out just right, and he tended to over-season if put in charge of spices. Regardless, they had more or less found some kind of rhythm when working together that usually led to decent results.

They occasionally goofed off, though, and this time there may or may not have been a slight food fight, which John had definitely not started despite Karkat’s insistence that he had, involving a certain powdered grain. His hand had slipped, scout’s honor, but Karkat was accepting no excuses when it was well-known that John had inherited at least a modicum of his dad’s pranking tendencies. There had been flour everywhere, but the short-lived battle had ended in the boys being told to go clean up by a chuckling father.

A change of clothes for both of them, a quick sweep of the kitchen, and one hour later, two piping hot homemade pizzas were out of the oven and divided. Each boy grabbing a handful of napkins and a drink, they headed into the living room to eat. The first thing John noticed upon entering was that his dad was still flipping through his pages of too small type and too many words. Honestly, he felt a bit sympathetic, since whatever it was looked straining to read. More often than not, the man would head to the relative quiet of his study with anything work-related, but he looked determined to get through all of whatever it was right then and there.

“Is it okay if we watch some TV, dad?” John asked, only getting a nod back. Yeah, definitely too set to finish his stack of required reading material. John likened it to getting homework as an adult, but at least it didn’t seem to happen too often. If there was one thing he was looking forward to about his likely future as a full-time hero, it was that at least he’d be done with homework forever after high school.

“This is good,” Karkat said around a mouthful of pizza, already having sat on the couch as he tried to manage a slice that was almost comically overladen with toppings. Sitting beside the troll while carefully balancing his own plate, John picked up the remote from its usual resting place on the couch’s armrest and turned on the television to his and Karkat’s favorite movie channel. It looked to be about midway through playing something he vaguely recognized but couldn’t quite place. Regardless, he was hearing no complaints from the troll, so he set the remote down and dug right into his own meal.

After six minutes of non-stop chewing, the void in his stomach had been sufficiently filled. Setting his now empty plate down on the coffee table next to the couch, John attempted to focus on the movie rather than letting himself think too much about Karkat sitting next to him, wearing his clothes. He did indulge in the occasional lingering glance because his willpower was just not strong enough to resist the rare opportunity to catch his friend in his own hoodie, which hung from the troll’s torso even more loosely than his normal hoodie selection did, enough so that John could spot well-defined collarbone peeking out from under the clothing. He couldn’t possibly ignore it when Karkat’s already hunched shoulders shifted up further as his chin tucked down until the fabric was up to his ears. That was just way too cute. Or when Karkat drew his legs up into the bottom of it as if he were cold, which was probably going to stretch the hoodie out a bit, though John couldn’t find it in himself to care very much about the state of the article when it was Karkat doing the stretching.

It seemed easier to try and ignore it when Karkat shifted positions back into something normal, but not by much. But considering the situation he had been presented with, there was definitely not a suspicious amount of outright starring happening on his part. When Karkat removed the hoodie to reveal one of his powder-blue t-shirts, John was actually a little relieved; at least now he wouldn’t be having lingering thoughts about how there was definitely more than enough room for him to slip one of his hands up under that hoodie while the troll was still wearing it. The fact that his dad was still in the room was also helping in the prevention of his mind from wandering too far. John looked over to the man just in time to catch him looking up sharply from his folder of papers all of a sudden, eyes fixing and narrowing on Karkat for just long enough for John to notice.

“What is it, dad?” John asked, wondering if he had just been looking up with no direction or if for some reason he had been looking at the troll beside him. His dad shook his head and glanced back down at the papers in his hands again, one eyebrow raised as if intrigued by something.

“It’s nothing, son, just getting a bit tired with the research. I’m going to finish in my study.” Without further comment, the man neatly collected up the contents of his file and headed out of the room. Karkat and John shared a glance that communicated the same message: _well, that was weird._

/ / /

It was around five in the evening when Karkat announced that he was tired enough of John to want to return home. Knowing that that translated into having to prepare dinner for himself and Crabdad, John handed him the pie he had been earlier promised—a rhubarb custard, as not much else was in season—and reluctantly watched him go. It hurt a little bit deep in his chest each and every time the troll left, despite knowing full well he’d see his friend again on Monday.

John decided to get started on dinner since his dad seemed to have a fair stack of papers to still sort through when he had left the room. He headed into the kitchen, busying himself with pulling out the various ingredients he needed to put together a pasta dish of his own creation that his father was fond of. Just about the time that the bucatini was about ready to be drained, the sauce of tomato and artichoke hearts was simmering away, and the grilled chicken was resting, John’s dad ventured back downstairs.

“It’s smells great, son.” John looked over his shoulder, shooting the man a broad smile before he walked the pot over to the sink. His dad went to work getting the table set up as John poured the pasta into the colander, steam fogging up his glasses. He frowned. Sometimes, the fake glasses proved to be a minor inconvenience. While he shook the pasta in the colander to ensure all the water was drained, he wondered idly how big the risk of being recognized as Heir was if he just forwent wearing them and pretended he got contact lenses. Heir usually wore his goggles, so, if anything, the glasses were probably a bigger tip off than going without. He shook the pasta a few final times: something to bring up with his dad, maybe.

By the time his pasta had been transferred to a serving dish, tossed with some olive oil and Parmesan cheese, and then finished with the sauce, their places were set up in the dining room. John brought in the plates of food for them and dished out their meal before taking his seat. He was actually pretty hungry, despite having had pizza less than a handful of hours prior. Even if his swim meet had been a relative breeze, he’d still burned a lot of calories. After he’d shoveled several enthusiastic forkfuls into his mouth, John slowed down enough to actually enjoy what he was eating. He was just swallowing his that first mouthful when his dad started speaking.

“Did you two have fun today?” It was an innocent question and one that often followed Karkat coming over. John looked up from his pasta with a grin but quickly faltered. His dad was giving him a look that seemed to be asking for more than just the usual agreement. He was smiling slightly, like he knew something and was just waiting for John to confirm it for him. The slight quirking of one of his eyebrows was like an open invitation, and John swallowed heavily, the taste of artichoke lingering on his tongue. John knew he was prone to over-analyzation due to the training that had been drilled into him since his childhood, but even he was struggling to find any other explanation for the somewhat heavy silence that had settled between them as his dad waited for a response. Seeing how the slight tugging at the corner of his dad’s mouth had only deepened the longer he waited, John was convinced; his parent was presenting him with the opportunity he had been waiting for without pushing it, the opportunity to explore his feelings out loud.

“Yeah, we did have fun.” John paused to chew tentatively on his lip, setting his fork to the side of his plate as he debated whether to expand on that. It hadn’t been the first time he had chosen to bail out of similar conversations. He just hadn’t really been ready to communicate what his bond with Karkat meant, before, or when it had all changed into something different.

His mind made up, John sighed softly and took a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “Can I talk to you about something, dad?” His tongue felt too thick in his mouth. There was an encouraging nod, the man’s gaze offering reassurance that he wouldn’t judge.

John took another deep breath, holding it for a tad longer than usual. Here went nothing. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for over a year, now, but I just didn’t think I could. It’s nothing bad, or anything. It’s actually probably the opposite, really, or at least it would be for anyone else. It’s about Karkat and, uh, how I feel.” He took a long pause, debating with himself on what to say next.

It was strange to think about his reasoning behind wanting to get to know Karkat in the first place. He had justified it at the time as a hero in his civilian life meeting someone he’d saved and wanting to follow up, but the reality of it had been much simpler than that.

In truth, he had just been a normal teenager, faced with an almost unbearable loneliness, and he had seen an opportunity in the new kid, unattached and with a personality that would be hard to understand. He had grasped at that chance for a relationship with someone like a drowning man grasping at a life preserver, and it has miraculously worked out for the both of them.

It had been their first winter together when he first clued into how his feeling for the troll had changed from platonic to something else entirely. It had been a sudden revelation during Bio Club, while Karkat chattered endlessly on about a pointless scenario of which fictional superhero could beat up another if they ever were to come to blows, much less enter the same universe. John had been sitting there across from the troll, not really processing anything he was saying, when he realized that he very much liked the shapes that Karkat’s mouth made as he went off in his ranting defense of his own favorite hero and why he would prevail due to his hypothetical foe’s mental shortcomings. John had let himself be distracted with the grey lips and the dark tongue which occasionally flicked over them, his own lips morphing into a smile as the sight became more and more amusing to him. As his gaze had eventually traveled upwards, he had really noticed the angles that made up his friend’s face, the way that his cheeks curved softly into tired-looking, rust-colored eyes, everything appealing to his mind. By the time his gaze had settled on his friend’s stubby nub-horns, so unique and different from any other troll’s that he’d ever seen in his entire life, and so god damn _cute_ , it all finally clicked in his head, and his perception of the troll had changed completely.

“I, about him, I really...you know,” John swallowed, trying to make his throat feel less dry so he could communicate what had consumed his heart. It was something euphoric, buzzing, and musical all at once, a tangle of things that he thought could be poetic if only he knew how to put them into words. It also hollowed him, and made him starve for more until he sometimes couldn’t draw a breath without the need shaking him to his core. He wasn’t sure how to put that into words that his father could understand, wasn’t sure that he actually wanted to reveal that much of himself and of his deeply personal feelings, so he went with the easiest explanation he could think of.

“I think I’m in love with him.” John kept his attention fixed down on the table, unable to force himself to look his dad in the eyes. “No, I know I am. At the very least, I’m _crazy_ about him, and I don’t have any idea what I should do about it. I don’t know what I _can_ do.”

John’s voice cracked as the overwhelming _frustration_ of it all pressed down upon him all at once, the conviction of his feelings only being matched by his uncertainty about what to do with them. Tears welled in John’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall, refused to blink, lest the tears spill over and onto his cheeks. He hadn’t cried in front of anyone in so many years that he couldn’t even recall the last time, but the exposure of his most fragile and safeguarded feelings were threatening now to overwhelm his defenses completely.

“I know what can happen when a hero forms a bond that can be exploited. I know that somewhere down the line, if I was to be open with how I felt, Karkat could be in danger because of who I am, but that doesn’t change anything. I can’t just stop myself from loving him with everything that I have. I love him so much, dad, and I don’t even know if I would have had a chance even if I wasn’t born like this,” he choked, his emotions getting the best of him. “Sometimes being Heir fucking sucks, dad, because it’s not like I can just deal with the nerves of having a crush or being afraid I’ll lose him if he rejects me, like other kids my age. I have to think about him potentially getting _killed_ by someone with a grudge. It sucks and I don’t know what I should do.”

He hung his head as he felt the last of his restraint slipping, the walls he tried to keep up crumbling as the first tear broke past his closed eyes. After the first tear trailed along his cheek, the ones that followed just wouldn’t stop. Biting the inside of his cheek, John tried to at least keep himself from making a sound as tears now openly streamed down his face and his nose started to run.

Through the pounding of his heart in his ears, he heard the feet of the chair across from him slide out against the wooden floor and the gentle padding of socked feet approaching him. Before he’d bothered to look up, hands set on either one of his shoulders and John was surprised when he was tugged up and against his dad’s chest. A hand found his hair and tousled it while the other patted his back in a steady rhythm, and John found his tears flowing even more freely, now. He latched on immediately to the embrace as if his life depended on it.

It was a calming gesture that reminded him of when he was younger. There was a specific incident that immediately came to mind of when he had been a child and still getting used to flying. He and his dad had been out in the country away from prying eyes, practicing his aerial maneuvers and getting the very young John used to controlling his flight properly. At one point, he had come in too fast during a landing, and had felt real, true pain for the first time in his life as he skidded along the ground, tumbling head over heel. He had been small enough for his dad to scoop him up, then, and carry him in his arms to where he had parked their car, shushing and whispering soft reassurances while John sobbed against his shirt. John had grown up a lot since then, sometimes much more quickly than he had wanted to.

“Son, thank you for trusting me with these feelings. That was very brave of you,” he whispered, the man’s hand rubbing gentle circles on his son’s back. It felt kind of strange to have something like the unleashing of his emotional turmoil be labeled as ‘brave,’ the same thing that was always expected of him everyday as a hero. Crying against his father’s shoulder just seemed a lot like vulnerability to John, the opposite of who Heir was supposed to be. “I’m proud of you.”

There was a lot more to that statement than what there normally was, John felt. It wasn’t a phrase uttered as an empty platitude, but a true, honest reflection of how his father felt about him. Maybe it was just because he was so emotionally vulnerable right now, but the statement brought a renewed flow of tears to his eyes, and John clung to the man even harder.

“I’m so happy that you’ve found someone you care about this much. Karkat is very lucky to have you in his life, and it’s clear that you make each other happy.” His father paused for a moment, apparently weighing his next words very carefully. “But I think you should take your time with telling him how you feel. You know it’s a big decision, but I trust you to make the right one for the both of you.”

John nodded, holding onto the man tightly until his tears finally stopped. He pulled away and wiped his nose against his sleeve, his thoughts stuck wondering how long he could possibly keep himself from telling Karkat. His dad was right on that account, however. He needed to wait and be sure of exactly how much he wanted to tell the troll before he did anything. He didn’t think he could unleash one of his biggest secrets to his best friend without feeling the need to tell him the other. And that was a secret that carried a lot of baggage with it.

“There are so few people out there who know how difficult it is to go through what you’re going through, son.” His dad squeezed his shoulder tight, grinning very slightly as he continued in an entirely unexpected direction. “I think you should forget what I said earlier about Hemogoblin. See if he needs a partner.”

/ / /

John felt absolutely drained as he propelled himself across the night sky. Despite having been out for less than an hour, the brief talk with his dad regarding Karkat had taken its toll on him emotionally. He had wanted nothing more after that than to curl up in his bed and sleep away the emotional residue still clinging to him, but duty called. Focusing was proving to be difficult, but as Heir he didn’t have the luxury of allowing his thoughts to wander freely. Besides, he had a mission to accomplish, tonight.

His dad’s sudden change of heart regarding Hemogoblin had been promptly questioned, though John had only earned a smile and a shrug for his efforts. Something had to have happened to make the man change his mind, but he wasn’t willing to share any details with John. Whatever the reason might have been, John had not only been given approval to go pursue the other hero, but also had consent to suggest teaming up with him. All this, and it wasn’t even his birthday yet. Maybe he should have tear-filled emotional outbursts more often?

As he was passing the financial district, the wind gave a sharp tug to John’s senses, causing him to whip his head around. Within moments, John spotted movement on a nearby rooftop, just off to the left of him. Narrowing his eyes, he quickly altered his flight path to investigate. The wind’s tug was gentle in that direction but still present, not urgently calling to him as it usually did when danger flooded the air, but more so just suggesting a path for him. John grinned, putting two and two together and coming to the conclusion that the wind had deemed his mission important and had once again led him to his objective. Besides, there weren’t exactly many freerunners in this city brave enough to jump across the rooftops of mid-rise buildings, let alone ones who made it look effortless.

Sure enough, when John swooped in for a closer look, he could just make out the telltale red and black suited troll as he swiftly cleared building after building. For a few minutes John simply watched him, floating along at a sedate pace, deciding he was in no real rush to make his intentions known now that he had found the other hero. Hemogoblin movements were so sure and confident, with each takeoff, jump, and landing coming in one fluid progression. It was like Hemogoblin had some sort of sixth sense about when and where to jump and twist his body, the whole performance reminding John of a skilled acrobatic troupe he had once seen with his father during a trip to the circus.

Seeing the troll dashing from rooftop to rooftop without any hesitation gave John thought. Could he do the same, without the safety net of the wind and knowing that there was only hard pavement stories below him if he miscalculated? He couldn’t really grasp the concept of physically falling since he had never done so without having at least some control over it. Even if he were to fly as high as he could go and cut all control of the wind, it would still caress and cradle him in its embrace as he fell, reassuring him that he would always land safely.

As he watched the troll flex and spring into the air, John became aware of a growing temptation to catch the other hero off-guard by halting his motions mid-leap with the wind. He was so close to the other now that all it would take would be an outstretching of his hand and a quick flick of his wrist. As amusing as that could be, though, those thoughts were quickly outweighed by the risks the prank could bring about. He didn’t know the extents of Hemogoblin’s abilities and the hero could very well take the action as an attack, react instinctively, and get them both injured, or worse. That would cut his amusement short pretty quickly.

“Are you just planning to watch me all night?” John looked down to where the voice called from, surprised to find that Hemogoblin had veered off his supposed path and jumped to the rooftop under him without John even realizing it. He really needed to work on letting his mind wander until any doubts surrounding Hemogoblin had been cleared. While he wanted to think the best of the other hero, he couldn’t deny how little he knew about him, and every moment of relaxed guard was a potential for attack.

John descended, stopping to hover at eye level in the gap between two buildings. He smiled, knowing that through the thin fabric of his mask his expression would be caught. He cleared his throat, reaching slightly for the deeper octave he used as Heir. “I was actually wondering if you’d like to go get a cup of coffee with me?”

A strange expression crossed Hemogoblin’s face as one of his delicate eyebrows raised above his mask, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Are you asking me out, Heir?”

Oh, shit, he hadn’t worded that right. “No!” John spluttered, caught off guard by the teasing tone and arched brow. The heat of blood rushing to his cheeks flummoxed him slightly as he tried to motivate himself to keep going with his plan. He hadn’t really expected to be the weak one in this conversation, but he had apparently been a bit wrong in assuming Hemogoblin was the quiet and subdued type if that short exchange was anything to go by. He definitely seemed more at ease than he had the other night when they’d just met. “I’d just like to get you know you a bit. You know, as one hero to another, protectors of the same city, all that.”

“Me and you, both foregoing our duties to the city, to go get coffee in costume? Doesn’t seem like the brightest idea ever.” Hemogoblin crossed his arms, scrutinizing John with those luminescent red eyes and a smirk on his lips. His gaze was fixed, unwavering and focused, looking for any reason to mistrust him. Or at least that’s how John interpreted it. Those eyes of his were somewhat intimidating when they were peering into your own, but John couldn’t look away, for some reason. Strangely, the other hero’s voice hadn’t been even, instead laced with a slight nervousness that didn’t project to his body language.

John might’ve been a bit thrown off by that comment, had he not been meticulously groomed and prepared for exactly this sort of banter through all of his verbal showdowns with Karkat. As it was, he brushed Hemogoblin’s words off as teasing and plowed on, an excuse already on his lips. “The wind calls to me when there’s danger, so a few minutes won’t hurt. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

Hemogoblin looked away to the ground in front of him in contemplation, brows furrowing slightly as if trying to work out John’s intentions. John couldn’t read if the reaction was one of consideration or just hesitation, so he tried to soothe the other hero’s doubts as best as he could. “Besides, at this time of night people will just think we’re some fanatic kids in cosplay. What do you say?”

Hemogoblin seemed to ponder his words for a moment more before he replied, “Sounds interesting.” The troll shrugged his shoulders, the air around him speaking of a lazy confidence as he agreed.

John resisted the urge to do something that didn’t fit with Heir’s image in his excitement, like spinning around in the air and slipping into exuberance over everything going to plan. He grinned to himself as he felt his earlier exhaustion bleed away to be replaced by this excitement, his entire mood uplifted from where it was not minutes before.

“I know a place. Should we meet there?”

“I have something quicker in mind,” John quipped. With an unnecessary flourish, he raised a hand symbolically, asking for the wind to bend to his will. It flowed around him in twisting currents before breaking off to twirl and dance around Hemogoblin, lifting up on his arms slightly and inviting the other hero into the sky, its demeanor light and playful as it welcomed the chance to embrace another in its grasp. Surprise registered in Hemogoblin’s eyes for a fleeting moment as he was slowly lifted a foot off the ground, but the alarm quickly gave way to a look that John could only equate to a childlike state of unimaginable wonder at realizing that he was actually flying, floating around above the rooftop weightlessly.

“Wow,” he uttered, the word coming out as an honest, awed breath as glowing eyes kept focus on the ground just below his feet. The reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected, as there were very few people in the world that had experienced the sensation of flight, just kind of... cute. John felt himself grinning more for being able to draw that kind of reaction out.

“Is this okay?” John asked as he lifted Hemogoblin higher and pulled them closer. It would be easier to control one central stream for the two of them than to have alternate, parallel paths, or to stretch the wind across a distance. She might get cranky with him if he tried that. Hemogoblin kept looking between Heir and the significant distance now between him and the ground, emotions now seemingly under control, but there was a clear struggle on the hero’s face to quell his apprehension. And John could understand that. Having lifted Hemogoblin up into the air with his powers, the other was basically now powerless and completely at his mercy. If John had decided to betray him, getting rid of him would be as easy as twisting his wrist. It wasn’t easy to essentially trust someone with your actual life, like that. “I’m not going to drop you, Hemogoblin.”

The troll said nothing for a moment, pursing his full lips. “It’s just different than how I imagined.” It was almost difficult to hear the troll’s soft voice over the wind whistling around them, but John managed to catch it, the wind carrying the subtle vibrations directly to his ear as if the troll was whispering into it, the sensation sending a slight shiver down his back. “The wind is warm.”

“You imagined I’d take you flying?” John asked, his tone amused. Hemogoblin’s lips twitched as he nodded in response, arms unwinding and falling slowly down to his sides. John couldn’t help but follow the limbs, catching himself before he lingered too long on the sculpted muscles hidden by such a thin layer of material. He had a feeling that, at least for the foreseeable future, staring was going to be a big challenge when it came to dealing with the other hero—Hemogoblin really did have an amazing body, and he definitely seemed to have no problems with putting it on display. He even put most of the sculpted bodies of the swimmers that John regularly encountered to shame.

John lifted them up until they were looking down at the illuminated city that they were both sworn to protect, deciding to allow Hemogoblin a moment to take in the view before he asked for directions. It wasn’t until he halted their ascent that he realized that Hemogoblin had at some point latched onto his arm, the hero’s grip loose but firm enough so that he was never without an anchor. John remembered feeling like he needed an anchor the very time he had flown, too, so the gesture was somewhat amusing to him. He looked down at the hand wrapped around his elbow, finding that a small alteration had been made to the arm warmers in order to include gloves. The modification was interesting, with the entire palm being exposed, the cut of the material following a V up his forearm to show his wrists. Yellow peaked out from the very tips of the gloves, and John took a second to realize that small slits had been made to allow his nails to poke through.

“Those are new,” he remarked, wondering how long it had taken the troll to whip those up. There had to be a reason for the design choice, since the gloves seemed like a whole lot of work if they were just for aesthetics.

“I made some changes to be safer,” Hemogoblin said, figuring out fairly quickly what John was referring to as he was all but picking the troll’s hand up to inspect the new addition to his ensemble. “You looked at my hands the last time we met and seemed concerned.”

John was impressed that the hero had picked up on that. It probably wouldn’t have ever been an actual problem, as those who had the means to run fingerprints through the necessary databases generally were working on the same side as them, but seeing the other err on the side of caution was still good. John paused, filtering Hemogoblin’s statement through his head. “You made your own costume?”

Hemogoblin was slow to nod and offer John a raised eyebrow, his expression seemingly asking John to elaborate on what exactly he was getting at.

John flushed slightly, returning his gaze back to the gloved hand around his elbow. “You did a...very good job.”

The tone the troll responded with after a slight pause was taunting, with a twinge of something else to it that John was unused to. “Thanks. I’m very good with my hands.”

John’s attention immediately shot back to Hemogoblin’s face, quick enough to catch the troll’s knowing smirk. John’s face felt hot under his mask but he tried not to let the troll’s words get to him. He was suddenly very much aware of the close proximity of their bodies as he straightened back up. Still, being so close up, now, John could really take in the hero’s eyes. They were really something else, already unique to him with that vivid crimson and their almost unsettling intensity. And that was without even considering how they shone in the darkness in an unnatural glow.

The hand at his elbow squeezed tightly and John tried not to let it show how flustered it made him. It seemed that he definitely needed to get used to those kinds of remarks, though he honestly wondered if Hemogoblin was being genuine, or just teasing. He decided to put that concern to the back of his mind, for the moment, because he still had a mission to accomplish. “Shall we?”

Hemogoblin chuckled lightly before he instructed John to head to the southwest corner of the city’s downtown core and to look for a well-known plaza there. At having confirmed their destination, John smirked, his prankster side rearing its head as he let the wind gather and coalesce around them, and then with a shot, they were off into the night sky. His prank was proven to be a success when the hand around his bicep tightened considerably and John just barely heard a muttered curse under Hemogoblin’s breath. He only kept that up for a few seconds before he let the wind die down a bit, but the unimpressed stare Hemogoblin sent his way had John grinning shyly. It shouldn’t have been that big a deal, really, since it wasn’t like the troll’s grip on his arm was the only thing keeping him afloat. They were both firmly in the wind’s embrace, with protection from inertia and whispers of safety tingling against their ears.

Once they reached a point not too far from their location, John let the wind flow less urgently around the two of them, giving Hemogoblin the chance to see the world from John’s normal viewpoint. This was a viewpoint that you couldn’t achieve by being in a metal plane, protected from the elements and the air by material means. This was different. And John wanted to share something that was his, to open up his world to show that he was genuine when he’d ask about potentially being partners. The troll seemed to appreciate it, if the visible excitement on his face and the hitching of his hand higher up on John’s bicep were any indication.

With Hemogoblin pointing the way, they arrived at his coffee shop within several minutes. Their destination was a small, brick coffee shop done up in eggplant purple and rich red, tucked away near a park and down the street from a major shopping center. Cream-colored lattice covered the windows, a warm glow emanating from inside the building. John and Hemogoblin landed in an alley near the shop, Hemogoblin detaching himself from John’s side. If John was honest with himself, he instantly missed the warmth and pressure, but he shoved that along with Hemogoblin’s earlier comments to the back of his mind, and together they walked the short distance to the cafe door.

Going inside from the chilling winter night to the embracing warmth made John breathe out a relieved sigh. Even if he had been using the warmth of the wind as protection from the night’s chill, it felt wonderful to relax his control and bask in the glow of central heating. He inhaled the rich smell of roasted coffee and books before stepping further inside, several of the cafe’s customers stopping in their conversations to give the pair curious looks. It wasn’t everyday that you saw a pair of teens “cosplaying” as superheroes strolling into your coffee shop, John supposed.

Hemogoblin walked past him confidently, and John couldn’t stop his eyes from trailing after him. Everything about him had become much more visible in the bright light, especially the way his muscles shifted under the tight material of his costume with each step. And _wow_ , did Hemogoblin ever have an amazing butt. Just. Wow. That sure was a flattering costume.

Someone cleared their throat loudly, breaking John’s attention. He looked up to see Hemogoblin grinning over his shoulder at him, swaying his hips a little from side to side, so—okay, he needed to stop looking at the other hero’s butt, regardless of how appealing it might have been. Down boy. It was not cool to just stare at the assets of your potential partner in justice on the second meeting. In his weak mental defense of his blatant ogling, he was positive that he wasn’t the only one who had been looking. The furious typing from one corner of the room had paused for an extended moment before slowly picking back up, and it seemed that someone was cursing after having over-poured their cream until their coffee had overflowed.

“Do you see something you want?” Hemogoblin asked, his voice almost a purr, and John cursed himself mentally. He was completely out of his depth trying to stand up to a flirtatious personality like this. He had never really encountered it before, so the words weren’t rolling off of him as easily as he would have liked. John could feel his face heat up before the troll chuckled, pointing up at the chalkboard behind the counter. “To order.”

The barista emerged from the back room moments after Hemogoblin delivered this quip, halting in mid-step as he took in the two people who had just entered his coffee shop. He blinked for a moment, eyes going from Hemogoblin to John and back again before an amused grin broke out on his face. “Well, hey there!” He exclaimed, hurrying over to the counter. “Those are some awesome costumes you’ve got there! What can I get you?”

Hemogoblin smirked, twisting slightly in place and spreading his arms out to show off his costume, his hips twisting in a way that would’ve made John double-take had he not already been staring. “Thanks, we worked really hard on them.” The troll looked up at the board, tapping a finger to his lips before deciding. “I’ll have a medium mocha with extra whipped cream. And he will have a...?”

John shrugged when Hemogoblin turned to him. “Gotta stay in character,” he said, tapping his face mask. Quickly opening up the pouch where he kept an emergency roll of bills, John pulled out a twenty. He put it on the counter, earning a curious look from his fellow hero. “I invited you.”

“Such a gentleman.” The short remark would have been harmless, if Hemogoblin’s voice hadn’t caressed the words in a silky flow that was both way too sensual and far too alluring. The batting of petite eyelashes didn’t help. Any nervousness the troll had possessed in their last encounter seemed long gone, and John suddenly felt totally out of his depth. Maybe suggesting a partnership was best to be delayed until John had a better idea of how to take the troll’s personality. He could use this time to assess the idea instead of jumping too far ahead of himself, despite his dad thinking it was a good idea.

Once Hemogoblin had received his drink—which came with a fair amount of chocolate sprinkles scattered across the mountain of whipped cream—they headed to a table near the back of the coffee shop, away from the curious eyes of the other shop patrons. While the barista didn’t seem hesitant to accept them as just kids in costumes, the handful of others there seemed much more eager to investigate, if given the chance.

Once they were seated, Hemogoblin crossed his legs under the table, giving John’s leg a quick nudge when he started talking. “So, Heir, why the sudden coffee date?” Hemogoblin asked, before he took a long sip of his drink, swallowing deeply before flicking his tongue over the top of the whipped cream in a slow, drawn-out gesture. It would have successfully left John stuttering and admittedly fairly turned on, if the other hero didn’t have whipped cream on the tip of his nose.

John stifled a chuckle, debating with himself whether to inform the troll, or let him sit there and make his flirtatious jokes with whipped cream all over his face. In the end, his decency won out. “Ah, Hemogoblin. You have a little...” He motioned to his face and Hemogoblin’s eyes widened. The look of embarrassment on the troll’s face as he hurriedly swiped his fingers over his nose made John laugh out loud, unable to contain his mirth.

Hemogoblin stared down at the offending cream on his glove and huffed before glanced at the table in search for a napkin. John had almost expected him to lick it off his fingers. It was a strangely relieving break from the troll’s blatant sexy side, and John found it much more endearing. Hemogoblin’s personality certainly wasn’t all he initially let on to.

“Did you always want to be a hero?” John asked as the other hero tried a second attempt at drinking his coffee, this time more mindful of the topping. The moment passed as soon as Hemogoblin’s tongue traced slowly across his bottom lip. He really needed to stop thinking about Hemogoblin’s tongue.

“I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”

That sounded like it could be a dangerous game with his present company, but John agreed to it, regardless. If he could get honest answers out of Hemogoblin, he would take the potential few thrown at him with the intention to get him hot under the collar.

“Most of my life, I just wanted to live quietly. I have a mutation, of the ‘You’re a freak,’ variety. I just didn’t realize I could apply it to something worthwhile until I was properly inspired.” Hemogoblin shifted, stretching his long legs under the short table. John jumped as a booted foot brushed against his shin. “The same question to you.”

John relaxed when the foot dropped to the ground, even if the sensation hadn’t been all that unwelcome. “I was always going to be a hero. I wanted to, yeah, but I was raised to do it. I don’t know if I would have been allowed to just refuse, to be honest.” Hemogoblin nodded at his answer, taking a tentative sip of his mocha. “Who inspired you?”

“You did.” Short and spoken with utmost confidence, the answer was unexpected. Knowing he had somehow inspired Hemogoblin to see a potential in himself, and to use it to help people by becoming a hero, gave him pride in the symbol that Heir represented. And, frankly, flattered him. “Would you ever give it up?”

John paused, weighing his answer. “I think about it. I’d be lying to say I don’t consider how much easier it’d make things. There are things I want from life that this lifestyle can’t give me,” he paused, his heart reminding him it was there with a dull ache as he thought of a certain someone in particular. “I don’t know if I could forgive myself for stopping, though.” John took in the troll across from him: gorgeous, powerful, deadly, and sipping on a mocha covered in fluffy whipped cream and sprinkles. Hemogoblin had surprised him in the boldness of his flirtatious side, the unexpected bouts of endearing actions, and the thoughtful silence he slipped into after John’s answers. Under that costume was someone who was complex, and who could relate to the struggles of being depended upon at such a young age.

It was John’s turn to ask a question. “Do you want a partner?” The question hadn’t even seemed hard to ask anymore, like he thought it would be. The ever-present nag of caution in the back of his mind was still there, but after sitting down with the troll and getting a better feel for his personality, his instincts were telling him he was making the right decision. Besides, the wind wouldn’t have settled like it had if Hemogoblin had presented any hostility towards him. If his instincts couldn’t be relied upon, then there was always the wind.

Hemogoblin sat up straight, eyes widening for only a moment before he was able get a grasp on his emotions. It had been more than long enough for John to see it and become curious, however. The troll tried to disguise the surprised reaction by leaning back, switching his legs so that his right leg was crossing over the other in a sufficiently distracting manner.

“As in, in general, or are you asking me to be your partner?” Hemogoblin would have sounded just as confident as he appeared, if not for the slight rise of his voice midway through his sentence. When his coffee cup was settled down on the table, John thought he saw the other’s hand shaking ever so slightly.

“Do you want to?” John asked, grinning boldly. If he was really the reason why Hemogoblin chose to become a hero, then he at least respected him, maybe even idolized him a bit.

“You haven’t even seen me really fight,” Hemogoblin breathed, his voice still a bit unsteady.

John nodded, briefly wondering just how much of Hemogoblin’s abilities he had still left to see. The first and only experience he had had with the hero’s style painted a clear picture of someone using his basic potential. He was too fast and too clean in his movements to show what he could do against regular people who couldn’t hope to match his experience.

“Let’s do a trial run, then,” John suggested, hoping for the answer he almost expected at this point. He didn’t think he could have read the situation wrong, even with his less than stellar people skills.

“Trial run?” Hemogoblin raised an eyebrow and tilted his head slightly to one side in question.

“Flying around the city together, stopping crimes, splitting the credit and work fifty-fifty. I can show you the trouble areas that need to be patrolled carefully and which parts are hot zones for gang activity, and you can show me what you can do. How ‘bout it?” The troll unwound his leg slowly before standing up. After a pause he picked up his coffee and finished it off, licking cream from his lips when he pulled the empty cup away. He looked expectantly at John.

“Let’s go.”

///

Hemogoblin’s kick connected like a whip, cracking just under the his opponent's pelvis with the bone of his shin and sending the man to the ground before he even had a chance to realize he was outmatched. The timed rotation of the troll’s hips and natural length of his legs made for brutal speed, his leg hitting with a force that could fracture a rib if he aimed high. Though from the position of the man’s leg and his clear agony, it wasn’t a stretch to assume he wouldn’t be walking comfortably anytime soon.

The fluid fighting style of capoeira had given way to mixed martial arts, heavily relying on muay thai, part way through the night. John wasn’t sure if it was just Hemogoblin demonstrating his different skills to him or if he was just adapting to no-nonsense takedowns for the more one-on-one fights, but it was impressive nonetheless. The troll had a strong background in the Thai discipline, evident in how precise his movements were and how each hit was focused on any and every vulnerability his opponents presented without thought. John was familiar with some of the moves Hemogoblin used thanks to the MCMAP training his dad had passed on to him, but he was honestly beginning to wonder if they were to face off without powers whether or not he’d stand a chance against the other hero’s speed. He knew how to block those kicks and elbow jabs in theory, but not when they came that quickly.

Hemogoblin restrained the man, who had been reduced to tears due to the pain in his leg, and John really wasn’t that sympathetic. They had caught him pinning a young woman a block away from a popular nightclub, hidden in the darkness of an alleyway away from prying eyes and any help. The wind had brought them there just as he had torn the purse out of her hands and before he could think of committing a crime worse than theft. The sight of the two heroes landing beside him had sent the man sprinting away, but Hemogoblin had caught up and rendered him immobile in a matter of seconds.

John stayed with the panicked woman, trying to calm her with gentle words, while the troll whispered something in the man’s ear that had him shivering and frantically nodding. Probably a threat, by the way the man looked ready to wet himself and the sinister expression the other hero wore. John raised an eyebrow as Hemogoblin walked past him and to the opening of the alley. He followed, hoping the hero would explain his excessive use of violence without John having to prompt him to do so.

“If they’re not afraid of me, they’re not going to stop.” He kept his voice low, a dark rumble as he walked with John. Once they were out of earshot, he sighed and let his face soften, keeping his back turned and body language aggressive. “They’ll just be back on the streets doing the same thing if I don’t give them a reason not to. That guy isn’t going to walk without feeling what I did to him. Without getting unnecessarily serious, this is what I can do.”

That made sense. Intimidation was a good tactic for stopping people from re-offending. John’s control of the wind, his unexplained powers to manipulate a gentle breeze into a hurricane at will, was what people feared. Hemogoblin was trying to establish his brute force and unreachable speed as his threat, as well as his unforgiving willingness to use both.

“‘Unnecessarily serious’?” John was curious. The whole night he had hung back unless needed, letting Hemogoblin show him his potential skills as a partner. Quiet, fast, powerful, and _very_ flexible, he was definitely worthy of fighting alongside Heir, but he never showed anything above what a highly-trained troll could do. It was impressive that he had such a high level of skills at such a young age, but still, it wasn’t unheard of. Being a hero was dangerous for someone who couldn’t dodge bullets or take hits that would otherwise kill a normal person. John wondered what he could be hiding.

Hemogoblin grinned slyly, “You’re not the only one with a fancy trick, Heir. I’m just keeping mine until I need it.”

“I don’t know if I should look forward to seeing it, if that’s the case,” John said, feeling like his attempts to split his attention between watching the woman on her cellphone with the police and the man whimpering on the ground were made nearly impossible while in view of those bright eyes. They were too new for him, and hard to not lose himself in if he wasn't paying attention.

“Good idea.” Hemogoblin tilted his head to the side, listening to the quiet sound of sirens in the distance that cut through the otherwise silence of the night. That was usually his clue to go if the victim seemed capable on their own, which in this case she did. Rattled, yes, but things hadn’t progressed far enough for her to be traumatized. Hemogoblin must have read his thoughts, because not a moment later, he asked, “Should we head out?”

“It’s about time to turn in, yeah,” John agreed, before reaching an arm around Hemogoblin’s waist without a second thought. He jumped off the ground, letting the wind carry them to the rooftop above. For such a short trip it was easier to just carry the other hero himself rather than ask the wind to do so. When he let go, Hemogoblin lingered against him for a noticeable time before stepping away, luminescent eyes shyly finding his own.

“Would you be able to give me a ride to the edge of the city?” The question was tentative as the troll leaned against the railing of the building, keeping his eyes on the would-be mugger he had stopped. He shifted his hips slowly, making it nearly impossible for John _not_ to look at his butt. Not that his eyes hadn’t gone there on their own as soon as the hero had bent over, anyway, but damn. John was pretty sure the troll wasn’t even doing that on purpose, this time. Anyone who wore whatever material that costume was made of was not self-conscious in the least.

“Flying beats my usual method of travel,” Hemogoblin offered as way of explanation. When he looked over his shoulder, John looked up sharply to his face, his expression as schooled as he could possibly make it. The troll raised an eyebrow, smiling devilishly as John attempted to look neutral. “Were you just checking me out?” The troll paused, his grin widening as he gave Heir a sultry look, his tone dropping a few octaves. “Again?”

John refused to let his glance look anywhere other than the troll’s face. “Nope.”

The other hero laughed shortly; John really wasn’t fooling anyone, but at least he could pretend he hadn’t been caught wondering just how long the troll had spent getting the material to curve around him like a second skin.

“Looks like the police are here. Let’s go.” The sirens were closing in, flashes of red and blue light catching off the windows of buildings less than a block away. Hemogoblin didn’t say anything, simply walked over and waited for John to make him fly again.

The troll’s eyes lit up with glee when his feet left the roof behind, despite having been flying with John to stop various crimes for most of the night. They flew close enough together for Hemogoblin’s directions to come as whispers in John’s ear, this time the sounds completely unaided by the wind. It made John shiver every time, which made him want to push the other hero further away so he could sort out why. Soon enough, though, they reached an inconspicuous building and he was letting Hemogoblin descend to the roof alone.

“I’ll have my answer for you the next time we meet,” the troll called up to the floating teen. With a smirk, Hemogoblin jumped off the side of the building, landed in a roll, and ran off at a speed John could only hope to match with one of his strongest gusts propelling him.

As he watched the other hero disappear into the shadows of the city, John took the time to try and clear his head, trying to puzzle out what exactly his deal with the troll was. He didn’t consider himself to be all that shallow, so this probably wasn’t a case of Hemogoblin’s ass working a spell on him, as damn near perfect as John found it to be. Hero-worship was not out of the question. Despite being an enormous fan of superheroes, he had never had an actual, tangible hero to idolize before. Here was one in the flesh, perhaps just as young as he was, new to the life yet seemingly more confident than he was. And—okay, there was also no denying that Hemogoblin was physically attractive—sexy as hell, with that body full on display—and knew it, but it wasn’t just that.

There were also the moments throughout their night when the troll had slipped up in his sultry persona. In those brief glimpses, he had been revealed as having a personality that John felt was genuinely adorable. The teen reminisced with a small smile, drawing up the images of a first flight and whipped cream in his mind before realizing what he was doing. That kind of reflection was very familiar to him. He’d been doing it for almost a year now, with another troll.

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. John could see himself slowly starting to fall for the other hero.

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sgt: Hey, guys! Long time, no see! Sorry for the long delay. We were on official hiatus, though, so it wasn't unexpected. The next update is guaranteed to come much more quickly. I hope you guys enjoyed this, because we put a lot of effort into it. It was asked numerous times how Hemogoblin managed to get around the city, and now you know. He is Troll Ezio Auditore.  
> Don't forget to add us on Tumblr at [**realmenweartights.tumblr.com**](http://realmenweartights.tumblr.com/). Doing research on swimsuits to find a nice one for John was damn fun, let me tell you. Unf. Get ready for some serious action in the next few chapters, as we enter into our first real Villain Arc!
> 
> As always, see you next time~  
> Chief Writer - Bananaramses  
> Plot/Editor - SergeantMeow  
> Illustrator - Panicismyrain


	7. In Which Heir Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of our first villain arc. Enjoy~

__

_  
**5 days later**  
_

/ / /

John had spent nearly a week both hoping for and dreading his next run-in with Hemogoblin, but every night following their trial run together, he hadn’t so much as seen a hint of the other hero. That led him to one of two conclusions: either Hemogoblin hadn’t been back on the job since they last met, for some reason, or the wind which John had always relied on to lead him to where he was most needed would avoid directing him towards crimes that Hemogoblin was capable of stopping on his own. That would be great for the city, he figured, since having its two heroes always separated would ensure double the amount of area protected, but it wasn’t so great for helping the teen to figure out his feelings. Either way, the wait to have his proposal answered was killing him.

Still, he was conflicted. While he honestly did want to know what they could achieve by working together, John was nervous at the prospect of potentially getting the chance to confirm what he could be feeling. He’d already spent the majority of the past five days debating with himself over whether it was good or not that he might be developing feelings for someone besides his seemingly off-limits best friend, and he still hadn’t come up with an answer yet. And if John were honest with himself, the whole situation felt like he might be jumping the gun a little, so to speak, at least where his emotions were concerned. He hadn’t even spent enough time alone with Hemogoblin to know much more about him other than that he liked the general sense of who he’d found the troll to be, and that their “date” had left a positive impression on him. Without knowing more about who Hemogoblin was as a person, John was basically falling for the impression he’d gained after a single night, which, compared to the month or so it took him to realize his feelings for Karkat, felt kind of stupid.

All he really knew was that Hemogoblin liked to put up a very flirtatious front, and that there was more hiding underneath the troll’s playful exterior than was immediately apparent. And also he was attractive. Like, holy shit, is-this-real-life, attractive. But it had been the glimpses of the person underneath the exterior that had really caught John’s attention. That was what he was attracted to. _Besides the butt_ , his brain helpfully reminded him.

John sighed as he flew across the sky, shaking his head slightly and trying to refocus on his patrol as he scanned the city below. It wouldn’t do to miss something just because he was preoccupied with dwelling on what-ifs. Despite all the years of practice, he still needed to learn how to better shut off ‘John’ when he was ‘Heir,’ it seemed.

It was a good thing that he’d chosen that moment to refocus.

Flurried movement in dim light caught his attention below just before John felt a desperate backwards jerk from the wind, the sensation rough and more violent than anything he was used to. His control was immediately ripped from his grasp and John almost let out a startled yell as he fell, the now-free wind biting harshly against the skin left exposed above his mask. John managed to catch himself after falling just a few feet, his loss of control having only lasted less than a second, but the wind was still pulling at him, pushing him in the opposite direction of where he was trying to direct his attention. 

Clenching his jaw, John focused his will and quelled the wind, bringing it fully under his control and settling it. His efforts were for naught, however, as the wind redoubled its efforts and John almost lost his balance again. Frowning, he focused in on the shapes of four identically dressed people rushing out of a building below him—one of the largest banks in the city. From his vantage point above them, he could only distinguish that they were all dressed head to toe in dark clothes and that each was carrying a large bag. John tried to steady himself in preparation for a swoop down to the street, but the wind refused to cooperate as he watched them jump into an idling black car, the tires screeching as the driver stepped down hard on the accelerator, the revving of the engine piercing through the veil of quiet that had settled on the pre-dawn streets.

It took a precious moment of struggle before he was finally able to exert enough control to swoop down towards the now rapidly retreating car, though the winds pressing against him as he angled towards the vehicle were doing their best to resist him. 

Taking in his surroundings, John noted that there was no alarm sounding after what was very clearly a robbery, meaning that the people who had just hit it were knowledgeable enough to have disarmed it somehow. So why the noisy hurry after a clean escape?

Just as he was nearing the slick-looking black car, the wind picked up furiously, spinning wildly around him in a sudden torrent that pushed John back up from his dive and into the sky, but it was a warning that John understood far too late.

The bank exploded in a hellish ball of fire.

The pressure wave from the blast sent John somersaulting through the air without any form of control. As he fought for the security the wind had always offered him, panic registered in his mind when he couldn’t get a grip on his powers, his body tumbling out of control through the air with no sense of which direction was up and which was down.

Just as John’s panic was starting to come to a frenzy, a strong wind wrapped around him like an apology, its momentary disruption by the blast over just in time for John to right himself before he hit the wall.

His back connected with concrete, all the air stolen from his lungs as he was thrown back with more force than he was expecting, Casey’s shaft imprinting itself harshly against his skin. The impact whipped his neck back sharply, snapping his head backwards to connect with the unforgiving surface of the wall.

For a long moment, he couldn’t breathe. The unexpected onslaught of physical pain, the temporary terror of losing his power for a split second, and the incessant ringing in his ears had frozen him in place, pinned against the wall as he was battered with a wave of almost unbearable heat.

John closed his eyes as he remained suspended against the wall, trying to find his inner calm as he assessed his condition. It was difficult to do, because his thoughts felt slow, like there was cotton in his head right behind his eyes. When his lungs started demanding oxygen, John slowly inhaled, feeling each muscle ache as his chest rose. He was pleased to find that nothing felt seriously wrong there; the last thing he needed was a collapsed or perforated lung.

John gave a moment of pause to appreciate the fact that Casey had been slung on his back in just such a manner that the impact against the wall hadn’t sent the hammer smashing against his skull. That could’ve been a devastating injury, had it happened. Still, her head was poking painfully against his shoulder, and at the very least, John expected he’d have a disgustingly large bruise there the next day. 

Rightfully shaken, he let himself just breathe for a minute, knowing he would be of no use if he couldn’t get his head on straight. He was physically okay, and that’s what mattered. Now he just had to suppress the fear, despite having never experienced anything like what he had just went through before. He didn’t have time for being afraid, and could only spare a few moments before the people who did this would get away.

A second later, the ringing in his ears had died down enough for him to catch the sound of the last of the debris falling to the ground, a muffled noise not unlike a brief, heavy rain. By the time his hearing had more or less returned fully, John could hear the sirens of emergency vehicles speeding towards the blazing inferno that used to be a bank. He took a second to consider himself lucky that he hadn’t been permanently deafened after being hit with the shockwave, let alone turned into a splat on the wall. He idly wondered if he’d be getting blisters on the exposed parts of his skin, and absently commanded a cool breeze to caress against his skin. The thought that here he was, pinned to a building, using his powers of wind control to make himself more comfortable while his city burned almost made him laugh out loud, a bizarre feeling that had the teen questioning whether or not he might actually have a concussion.

John lifted his head from the wall slowly, turning it first to the left and then to the right, cautiously, lest he discover that he had a broken neck. When everything seemed to check out okay, John pushed against the wall lightly, the wind supporting him as he hovered in place, still leaning against the wall. The wind whipped by his face a moment later, catching John’s hair and whipping a few errant tufts to the side. When he inhaled next, the wind filled his lungs, and John felt a sudden burst of energy as he blinked strongly and his head cleared a little bit, the cotton feeling ebbing away into clarity. 

Surveying his surroundings again, John watched the flames wildly jumping through the air and the billowing, oily black smoke rise from the wreckage as he tried to get a handle on himself. He watched the smoke curling and twisting with an odd sense of fascination; that was the first time he had been anywhere near an explosion of that magnitude, and the whole experience had taken on a surreal feeling, even though it’d just happened literally seconds ago. The loss of control that the shockwave had caused had him rattled, because never before had he felt that helpless without his wind. John didn’t like that feeling.

Looking around quickly, he tried to decide which was the more pressing concern: the flaming debris scattered in a wide radius around the former bank, or tracking down the car which had fled down the less than a minute before. John swallowed heavily, his throat dry, before pushing off completely against the wall. The immediate return to an open environment with no physical support had John’s head momentarily swimming with a sense of vertigo, but the sensation passed quickly. 

Zipping over to the burning building, John surveyed where he could be of the most help. There was debris everywhere, with smaller fires starting to spread all around the area. Whatever type of explosive the criminals had used to cause this kind of destruction, they’d obviously wanted to erase any evidence of their crime having ever taken place. Simple compound explosives didn’t produce that kind of conflagration. This was something different. They’d either had someone extremely knowledgeable about explosives, or they’d taken the time to wire every inch of the building. There were less messy ways to get rid of evidence, for sure, but John had to hand it to them for their thoroughness.

In a matter of moments, he had taken care of the larger piles of debris that looked like they were threatening to ignite other buildings, extinguishing the flames by first erecting barriers of wind around them and then stealing the oxygen and depriving the fire of its fuel. Knowing the firefighters would be there soon, he ignored the larger fire which had by then completely engulfed the remnants of the bank, and with a push against the wind he rocketed high into the air.

Had anyone been around to see the look of angered determination that marred his features, they would’ve felt pity for whoever had caused it. Heir had some criminals to catch, and he had no intention of going easy on them.

John gathered a large gale of wind at his back and shot down the street in pursuit of the getaway car, trusting the direction he felt drawn towards as he focused on gaining speed. Sure enough, only a handful of blocks away he spotted the dark car racing away from the crime scene, hurriedly passing the small amount of traffic it came across. John grit his teeth and arched down, descending until he was sailing over the roofs of cars nearly close enough to touch them. His targeted car was hard to miss at street level: slick, black, expensive, and deep tinted windows separated it from the average getaway car John encountered in his day to day life.

As John approached, the two rear windows of the car rolled down slowly. It was too dark to see the occupants of the car as they sped along, but it was hard to miss the long barrels that appeared out of either side of the car from the opened windows. As the car sped through a vacant intersection, street lights gleamed off the muted black surfaces of two assault rifles as they angled up towards his position. John’s fingers found purchase in the wind as he pulled back with his hands, using the wind as an anchor point to both decrease his speed and give him a platform to raise his elevation, maneuvering his body so he shot up to give the gunmen a near impossible target. Regardless, a second later the night was filled with the noises of gunshots. 

John’s frown deepened as he kept chase from high above, unconcerned with being hit with that kind of sporadic fire. The people inside had to have been stupid to expect accuracy from that kind of weapon when they were both moving and he was at that distance, especially while the wind around them was heavy and turbulent with his emotions. Still, it was a sufficient enough reason to keep him from getting too close to the vehicle, at least for the moment. It was not often that he came across people carrying anything heavier than a pistol, mainly due to cost and availability. That meant that these guys were either well-financed or well-connected, possibly even both. That wouldn’t protect them from Heir, however.

Reaching over his shoulder, John jerked Casey out from her bindings, letting the momentum of the heavy hammer’s head swing the weapon high into a striking position over his right shoulder. Tipping himself forward and twisting into a roll, he rocketed down towards the vehicle while urging the wind to give him all the speed that it could. John was almost a complete blur as he built up an airstream behind him, continuing to accelerate until he was almost upon the trunk of the car. Bullets whizzed past him, ricocheting off his barrier of compressed air and getting caught up by tendrils of the wind so they didn’t get the chance to find an unfortunate bystander.

Rolling with his momentum, John leveled and followed through with the path that his roll had sent Casey along, both of his arms gripping the shaft tight as he swung up with every bit of strength that he could muster, catching the car under the bumper and following through in a swing that would eventually see Casey being held over his shoulder again. With an angry yell tearing itself from John’s throat, metal rippled and bent in a long screech as Casey ripped through the trunk, the shockwave of the impact rattling the car and lifting it off the ground by at least six or seven feet.

John’s swing had lifted the car onto two wheels high enough so that it would still eventually fall back if given the chance, but the built-up and compressed jetstream of wind that followed in the wake of John’s rapid descent had other plans. With a rushing roar that sounded like the whistling of a freight train, the massive jet of funneled air slammed into the precariously balanced car, picking it up and tossing it into the air as if it were a toy.

The vehicle flipped twice through the air before it hit the pavement on its side with a cacophony of crushed steel and shattered glass. It continued rolling over several times with its momentum before it finally came to a stop about a hundred yards away from where it had first touched down.

The rage John had felt moments before slipped away as he watched what had just been a gleaming, new car steam in a broken heap. The hero cringed, having not fully realized what kind of destructive power he had been about to bring, and hoped that the criminals had remembered to wear their seatbelts. The last thing that he wanted was casualties on his conscience when they could have easily been avoided through restraint. In his few years of being Heir, he had never seriously hurt someone to the point where they could die. Tonight might have changed that.

After re-sheathing Casey, John cautiously floated over to what was left of the car and was immediately relieved to see the people inside—bruised, cut, and bleeding, but very much alive—trying to claw their way out of the wreckage. Acting quickly, John reached into the car through the broken windows and fished out their visible weapons, tossing them casually over his shoulder and into the air where the wind carried them all at least twenty feet away. Once he was satisfied with the number of guns and knives he’d retrieved, John began yanking the four bank robbers and driver out of the car, laying them out against its side. He was sure to be none too gentle as he ordered them not to move while they waited for the cops. None of them seemed up to resisting, not after that display of power.

The five were strangely obedient, quietly observing him as he returned the favor. The group consisted of two trolls, one of whom was female, and three humans, one of whom was enormous to the point of being intimidating. They were all dressed head to toe in, strangely enough, tailored black business suits.

Only the large man broke the trend with his black trench coat. John watched with tensed muscles as the man slowly turned and reached into the front seat, the wind picking up as he prepared to knock the man out for his disobedience. He let the wind die, however, as he looked on in confusion as the human pulled out a black wide-brimmed hat and placed it on top of his bald head. 

He scowled up at John then, and the hero tried not to blanch at the hate he saw in the man’s eyes. Those eyes were those of a man who was no stranger to causing others pain. John had only ever seen those kinds of eyes a handful of times in his life, and they unnerved him more than he cared to admit. They were the eyes of a hardened killer, and right now, they were sizing him, the thug looking as though he wanted to do nothing more than to test his strength against the teen. There was a confidence there behind the glare, yet he didn’t move to act on it. John held the gaze for as long as he could before breaking away, slowly looking down the line-up once more to gauge the level of injuries on the rest of the criminals.

“Yer messin’ with the wrong people, kid,” the largest man spoke, voice coming in a low, gruff rumble that drew John’s gaze back to him immediately. John could only focus on the man’s eyes for a moment before he looked down at the man’s attire more carefully, taking note of the small black heart pinned to his breast. “The Midnight Crew won’t forgive this.”

John frowned, mulling the name over in his head, trying to place it. “Who?” The question received a scoff and a well-aimed gob of spit and blood to his boot. John looked down in disgust, brushing it off with a flick of the wind. The sound of sirens approaching in the distance caused him to look up and take notice of the flashing lights growing nearer, but when he turned back to try and persuade the man to give him more information, he seemed to have either passed out or was doing a very convincing job at acting as such. John sighed softly, letting the name roll off the tip of his tongue. The conviction that the man had spoken of the group had almost been unsettling. He’d be sure to seek out more information in the morning.

_The Midnight Crew._

/ / /

When the buzzing of his alarm woke John the next morning, he quickly discovered that his body was aching to the point where he didn’t want to move. He lay in bed after slowly reaching for his snooze button, shifting gently from side to side to try and determine if there was damage behind the muscle ache which he might have missed during the adrenaline-filled night. Everything felt over-exerted and strained as he rolled his limbs and twisted, but nothing registered as seriously painful. Still, he would have to have his dad check the points which were bothering him the most before they left the house. It might make him late for school, but it was worth it to be on the safe side.

Being mindful of his body, John set about going through his morning tasks much slower than he normally would have. Making his way to the bathroom, he climbed into the shower and turned the water on hot, working his fingers over taut muscles to try and relax them. When washing his hair he discovered a bump on the back of his head and prodded at it carefully. The area was tender from where it had connected with the wall during the explosion, a dull throb coursing through his brain as he pressed against the spot. There was a slight sting when he pressed too hard, and when he pulled his fingers away and examined them, he discovered dried blood under the tips of his fingernails. Lovely. He’d probably bled all over his hood and hadn’t even realized it.

John headed downstairs after drying off and getting dressed, discovering an omelette waiting and steadily cooling on a plate for him on the dining room table. He winced and let out a soft hiss of pain as he sat down, a flare of muscle ache protesting against bending. His dad looked up in concern at the sound, watching as John stiffly reached out for his fork.

“Are you alright, son?” John could see those worried eyes flicker over him, trying to catch sign of any visible injury. John sighed and rolled his shoulders, which made his joints pop audibly with the movement. 

“It was a bit of a rough night. One of the worst I’ve had, to be honest. The group I stopped last night,” John paused, wondering how to phrase this. “They were....different. Totally different from what I’m used to dealing with. I caught a group coming out of the central bank downtown just in time for it to blow up in my face.” John paused again, knowing that his dad could react very negatively to this part. The look on his father’s face was patient, however, as he waited for John to continue. “I hadn’t been expecting that, obviously, so I got caught up in the explosion and was knocked into a wall about two streets over. I’d never felt something like that before; it was so strong that the wind wasn’t able to react to me right away. I managed to get it under control to slow myself down a bit, before I hit, thankfully, but if I hadn’t...” The alarm that registered in his dad’s eyes as he let him fill in the blanks let him know that he had gotten the message. They both knew that John had been lucky to have flown away from the scene only sore and shaken. He’d been lucky he hadn’t had his neck broken.

It took a few moments for his dad to speak, and when he did, John noticed that he was gripping the table with one hand, his knuckles turning white from how hard he was clutching it. When John looked up into his face, however, it wasn’t the expected anger that he saw. The man’s face was twisted in a grimace of what almost looked to be pain, though John quickly deciphered its true meaning. It was concern.

“You should have woken me last night when you got home, John. You could be hurt without even realizing, you know that. What if you’d had a concussion? You could be in a coma right now, and I’d still be waiting down here for you to come to breakfast.”

John had the decency to look slightly abashed. His father had always told him that if he ever received a head wound of any kind that he was to report immediately to the man for a once-over as soon as he got home, no matter what time it was. That had been one of the rules John had agreed to early on as a condition of his having nightly patrols. Still, John hadn’t even told him about his head injury yet. That the man was worrying about a concussion before John had even mentioned it made his concern seem somewhat overprotective, though.

“I want you to stay home until I make sure you’re fine. I’ll call in late.” 

John didn’t disagree. That meant forgoing first period, if not the day, for recovery. He nodded, shoveling a large forkful of eggs into his mouth. He’d have to call Karkat and let him know he wouldn’t be there to greet him by his locker like he usually did.

“I know. I know I should have woken you, but I was exhausted when I got home and just crashed instead of thinking.” John chewed his eggs for a moment, looking down at his plate thoughtfully. “I’m pretty sure that they blew up the bank to cover their tracks after robbing it, because I can’t think of any other reason why they’d do it, unless they just wanted to cause chaos. I didn’t hear an alarm of any sort before it blew, so they must have gotten through the security system somehow. Still, I’ve never seen anyone go to that kind of extreme before just to cover up a robbery. That was total overkill. When I did catch up to them, they tried to shake me off their tail by shooting at me. I didn’t really get a chance to examine their guns in any detail, but they were definitely assault rifles. Modded to be fully automatic, too. Definitely not your normal thugs. I, uh, took out their car. With Casey.”

His dad’s eyes widened slightly. “With Casey?” The warhammer was mostly for intimidation purposes, rarely coming out unless a wall had to be knocked down or something big needed to get pushed out of the way quickly. He could have picked the car up with the wind alone if he’d needed to just stop it, but to pull out Casey was an act of anger.

“That might have been overdoing it a little, but after that explosion, I just... yeah.” He’d long since mastered control over his strength, but keeping a control on his emotions was still something he needed to work on, apparently. If push came to shove and John gave in to his anger, he knew that someone could very easily wind up dead, and that was the last thing that he wanted. “No one was seriously injured, but when I pulled them out of the car, I noticed that they were all dressed the same way. The biggest guy told me that the Midnight Crew wouldn’t forgive my actions. Have you ever heard of them?”

The man’s eyes narrowed as a pensive look stole across his face. He regarded John carefully before sliding the daily newspaper across the table. “Was this them?”

On the front page was a color picture of the smoldering wreckage of what had once been a gothic bank and a landmark of the area. There was an article giving an overview of the events of the night, smaller pictures of the group member involved at the bottom of the page. The most recognizable was the large man with the cold eyes who had his hat tilted over his brow and the collar of his trench turned up to cover as much of his face as it could. One hand extended to block much of the photographer’s view of him, and it struck John as just clichéd _bad guy_.

What was shocking was the line at the end of the article, just over the picture of the man who had intimidated John just by looking at him. John gasped, not believing what he’d just read, and scanned over the words again just to make sure.

“They released them! I can’t believe this; they made bail and they just released them!” John hurriedly read through the contents of the article. The journalist went over their speculations and what the police had supplied them, since the five had not made any kind of statement, sticking to their right to remain silent when pressured for answers. John’s frown deepened as he read through the article. There was no mention of any weapons or money having been found at the wrecked car, and with no real evidence holding them to the scene of the crime, all five members had been released on bail as soon as an amount had been set. That stunk of corruption, but there was nothing that John could do about that. Biting back a curse, he continued to read.

The reporter, along with the police, speculated that these people were part of a national crime syndicate which had gotten its start on the east coast, called the Midnight Crew. The syndicate had recently been noted as spreading its reach across the country, due in no small part to the organization’s almost fanatically loyal members and its ruthless code. The reporter claimed that their numbers were estimated to be in the hundreds and that despite ongoing attempts by the government to shut them down, their centre of operations changed constantly. With the sudden appearance of a nefarious gangster—the large man was a brute known as “Boxcars,” a supposed higher up in the group—the writer speculated that the Midnight Crew could very well now be operating out of their very city.

John had good reason to believe that they were.

John slammed the paper down, his pulse pumping loudly in his ears. “Do you know anything about the Midnight Crew or about Boxcars?”

“I’ll look into it, son.” The look he gave John was one of concern. “You need to be careful with this. Organized crime is something you’ve never had to deal with before, and this isn’t something that you can rush into head on. If this really is an incursion by the Midnight Crew, then they are extremely well-financed and well-equipped. It’s not surprising that they were able to make bail.” His dad took a sip of his coffee, the frown never leaving his face even as he gulped down his beverage loudly. “I’ll find out everything I can. In the meantime, don’t let your guard down.”

John nodded, letting this sink in. This was a lot bigger than him and he wasn’t sure if he could handle it on his own. But, he suddenly realized, he wasn’t alone, not anymore, and he immediately voiced his concern. “Hemogoblin might not know about these guys and the kind of danger they represent. It took me a week to run into him last time, and I haven’t seen him for days. What if the Midnight Crew finds him first? They don’t want heroes nosing around in their business, Boxcars made that pretty clear, but what if—” John couldn’t finish the thought out loud.

What if they killed him? What if they killed the only other hero John had met, because the wind refused to let their paths cross? _No._ He had to tell himself that the wind would guide him to where he needed to be if there was danger, especially danger involving someone who meant something personal to him. Still, John couldn’t shake the idea that if something happened to his fellow hero that could’ve been prevented by his forewarning, it would all be John’s fault. Hemogoblin had some kind of power, that was true, but whether it was one that could fend off a barrage of bullets or help him to survive an explosion was still a mystery. Unless he was much more than he’d let on, Hemogoblin could still bleed.

“I’m sure Hemogoblin can take care of himself and won’t rush into a situation he can’t handle, John. You should be worried about your own well-being first and foremost, even if he could one day be your partner.” John nodded, but his dad’s words hadn’t done much to calm the thoughts swirling inside his head. There was something to be said about trusting your partner to protect himself, but trust was a two-way street. Hemogoblin needed to trust that John would do everything he could to keep his partner safe, too. His mind made up, John clenched his fist. He needed to find Hemogoblin and get his answer about partnering before things escalated too high for either of them to handle alone.

He didn’t know if he was ready to take on something as big as the Midnight Crew singlehandedly, but if he couldn’t locate the other hero quickly, he might be forced to.

///

John and his dad stayed home for half of the day just making sure he hadn’t broken anything when he had been knocked into that wall. The fact that he had temporarily lost his hearing combined with the overall shock of his impact meant that he might not have heard the snap if something had actually fractured, but John hadn’t felt any swelling during his shower so he’d voiced his doubt. Still, he was prodded and asked questions until his dad felt sure he hadn’t actually done much damage. It would have felt embarrassing if it wasn’t so expected; his dad always acted like this whenever he reported receiving any injuries, as seldom as that happened. He did have to put up with another lecture after his father had found the bump on the back of his head and the already-healing patch of broken skin, but John felt that one was rightfully deserved. His dad’s earlier concern about concussions and comas really wasn’t all that unfounded, after all.

The speech he’d received when he’d called Karkat to inform him of his impending absence because of a morning stomach bug had been no less vocal than his dad’s lecture, though it had warmed John’s heart to hear the tinges of concern interspersed amongst rants about the troll not getting his daily intake of coffee. He had made John swear that he would call or text him during their lunch period if it looked like John was going to be absent for the entire day, or else Karkat would be skipping school and driving over there to check on his “lazy, bedridden ass.”

After the checkup, it was on to getting John’s muscles relaxed, at least enough so that he could go to school without limping like an old man who’d lost his cane. Soaking in a hot bath with Epsom salts after his checkup did wonders to reduce the tension in his body, though he was still rather tender afterwards. His dad helped him to apply muscle cream once he was dried off, which went a long way to making John feel like he was ready to face the rest of the day and the coming night, at least physically.

When John did finally make it to school midway through the lunchbreak, Karkat had immediately abandoned the small group he had been seated with to fuss over him. It felt nice to be the object of Karkat’s attention like that, even if he had been worried over John’s supposed illness all day. The troll “forgave” him of his illness when John had held out the usual thermos full of coffee and apologized for it being a bit late, something they both shared a small smile over.

The rest of the day went on like any other Friday, with the exception of John having to check in with his first few teachers of the day. Karkat had waited after school and drove him home, the two planning out another Saturday together before they parted. John was glad he hadn’t taken the entire school day off, if only to talk with Karkat and ease some of the mental strain he was having over his latest enemy. Try as he might, John couldn’t shake Boxcar’s words from his mind, the impending threat that the Midnight Crew wouldn’t stand for his interference looming over his head. He’d never had a bad guy tell him something like that before and made the threat sound so believable.

John’s afternoon consisted of stitching his suit back up where the material had been cut to expose the dark lining underneath. The shockwave from the blast had worn some patches here and there as if he’d skidded along concrete, and there were outright cuts where he must have been pelted with debris. The tougher lining and Kevlar weave on the inside of the outfit had kept anything from getting all the way through, but it was still a pain to have to repair. The suit was really starting to show some wear and tear from everyday use, and after less than a half a year of use, this one was already looking about ready to retire. John was glad that his father was capable of constructing Heir’s costumes for him, because John really wouldn’t have known where to start. Patching up areas and stitching tears was about the extent of John’s sewing expertise.

The hardest part of the task came when he discovered a patch of dried blood on the inside of his hood that corresponded with the bump on his head. It wasn’t much, but it caused John to frown, regardless. Blood stains were notoriously difficult to get out once they’d set in, so it was always a chore to remove them. It took almost a full hour of scrubbing with hydrogen peroxide and cold water to remove most of it, and even then there was still a faint outline of a stain. That would have to do, he’d decided, since he really didn’t have much time until his nightly routine.

///

Sure enough, it didn’t feel long at all before John was once again flying around in the chilly night air, patrolling and on the lookout for ne'er-do-wells. He was on high alert, keeping more of his attention on the subtle shifts of the currents gliding past him than he had the previous night, trying to be more sensitive to the feelings that the wind was displaying. The other night he had ignored the urgency of its alarm, and he wasn’t going to repeat that mistake again. Especially not when he already had such a foreboding feeling nagging at the edge of his consciousness. 

John flew cautiously higher as he neared downtown, his senses relying on the tendrils of air constantly surrounding him to bring information back to him. Flying at such an altitude meant he would miss seeing Hemogoblin’s dark shape running through the shadows and over buildings if he were in the area, but his altitude decreased the likelihood of an ambush or attack. All he could do was whisper a request to the wind to watch over the other hero and to keep him safe from harm. The breeze picked up for just a moment after he’d thought his request, and John hoped that that meant it had heard him.

The wind pulled him down not even an hour into his night and he quickly descended, alert for any sudden changes. Hovering high above a parking lot, he rather quickly spotted two guys trying to break into a car. No suits, no bigger-than-a-gorilla gangster looming in the shadows, just a run-of-the-mill carjacking by a young pair of trolls wearing handkerchiefs over their faces. A small crime, but an opportunity to inform these young adults that crime wasn’t the direction to be taking their lives in.

John flew closer and hovered behind them, waiting for a few moments with his arms crossed. When they still didn’t notice him, he cleared his throat loudly, causing both to drop their tools and turn around wildly to search for the source of the noise.

“Up here, fellas.” They froze, one glancing up quicker than the other and letting out a choked scream. The other followed suit, looking up into the sky to where John was casually waving. The teen made a startled gasp before they both turned on their heels and bolted for it. John sighed, frowning tiredly behind his mask. _Why did they always run?_ John gathered the wind around him, pushing it behind him as he prepared to chase after them.

A sudden flicker of orange and yellow sprang into life in the distance, moments before a loud _boom_ followed in its wake, the flash lighting up a point on the horizon like a miniature sun before a black plume of smoke bellowed out into the sky.

John’s blood ran cold.

The wind around him picked up a few degrees in temperature despite the distance of the inferno many blocks away, and the windows in the building below him rattled in their frames, vibrating in the aftershock of the blast. John instantly knew that that had been a bigger explosion than the night before, because if he had been standing anywhere near that blast just now, he probably wouldn’t have walked away from it.

He also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, who was responsible.

The cold feeling in the pit of John’s stomach hardened into a lump. He had been expecting something like this, but so soon? That was ridiculous. It was only last night that he’d had a run-in with the Midnight Crew, but it seemed that they were already itching for another encounter. Collecting himself, John looked to the sky, quickly abandoning the chase of the would-be car thieves for the much bigger crime. The heavy smell of smoke carried swiftly on the wind which was calling him to action, but John didn’t need the wind to tell him where to go. The glow of the fire burning uncontrollably in the distance was so bright it was almost like a sunrise. Whatever was burning, this target had been larger than the bank, and the intention hadn’t been the removal of evidence of a crime. It was a mark, something that the bomb-maker had set up to burn as big and as bright as possible.

It was a declaration of war.

///

It only took minutes for John to fly across most of the city and enter the factory district. He kept pushing the wind to propel him as fast as it could in order to get to the source of the inferno, despite the gnawing doubt that such a large blaze was already well out of his ability to control.

Still, John kept his eyes on the target as he rapidly closed in on it, all the while keeping in tune to every breeze flickering against him. He was listening for a warning that his enemy was near, strongly suspecting that a trap had been laid out at the scene and that he was flying straight into it. His attention split between racing at his top speed and watching for signs of an ambush, John could feel the slight strain on his powers, the itchy feeling working its way along the back of his neck and down his spine. He couldn’t keep that level of concentration up for too much longer, especially when he had no idea what the rest of the night could potentially bring.

As John closed in on the burning building, he noted that the wind wasn’t being its usual calming source of power. It was swirling around him in alarm over the disturbance in a way that made the hero suspect it was picking up on the nervous energy he was exuding. In his almost half a decade as Heir, John had never before tangled with an enemy so large and dangerous as a professional crime syndicate, and his trepidation was bleeding through his confidence. That was more easily said than done, however. What kind of evils could an organization with almost unlimited funding bring against a single hero? John really didn’t want to think about that, and so with a conscious exertion of his will, he clamped down on his emotions and centered himself, the wind quieting and coalescing into the protective barrier it always maintained.

His doubt tamped down, John drew near the building. It wasn’t just any building, however. The hero shielded his eyes as he came to a hover as close as he could possibly bear to one of the largest warehouse refineries in the area.

The entire structure was ablaze, every inch burning in a massive conflagration which he couldn’t possibly hope to handle by himself, especially with his enemy potentially close by. No matter where he looked, there were flames engulfing every surface, crackling and popping and destroying everything in sight. It dwarfed the scale of the bank explosion so extremely that John was at a momentary loss as to what he could possibly do. He was a good twenty or thirty feet away from even the edge of the blaze, and already the heat was so unbearable that John was pretty sure he’d be suffocating if it weren’t for the wind continuously whipping by his face in an attempt to regulate his temperature. The inferno was overwhelming, and John was frozen as he tried to simply process something so much larger than himself.

John’s mind raced through his options and which would be most beneficial to the city. If he used everything he had to try and suffocate the fire, he might be able to make it more manageable for the fire crew to control, but then he knew it would be pointless to try and exhaust all his efforts into something that couldn’t be saved anyway. There was no chance that the building wouldn’t burn to the ground regardless of what he did. That’s probably what the firemen would do, anyway: let the building burn itself out while making sure it didn’t spread to other buildings. This was beyond him. His best course of action, then, was to focus on finding who did this and why, despite already knowing the culprits and having a pretty good idea of the motive.

He drifted further back, watching as the flames spiked high into the sky, uncontained and wild. Even at this distance, he still felt like he had been thrown right in the middle of an oven. John turned his back on the factory and searched for any signs of his enemy, all the while feeling like a failure for being so powerless to do anything. He couldn’t even investigate for people caught in the blaze, not when getting close would mean instantly burned skin.

At least the thick, acrid smoke billowing from the site was being funneled around him so he was only catching hints of it in the back of his throat when he breathed. It was little consolation, as the smoke was now obscuring much of the area around him. John moved his hand through the air in front of him, cutting a path in the haze so that he could see. That was no good; he needed to retreat further to have a chance to take in his surroundings and find clues as to where the perpetrators of the blaze might be. It was very possible that this might have been remotely detonated, and that there was someone hidden among the surrounding buildings at this very moment, watching him, maybe through the lens of a rifle’s scope. At that chilling thought, John drew the wind around him even tighter, compacting it into a more dense barrier.

As John flew a couple of blocks away to where the smoke was thinner, he noticed something strange on one of the roofs nearby. There was a flashing light flickering in consistent bursts on top of a warehouse building a bit to his left. As he drew near, he noticed that the device emitting the light was placed in the direct center of the roof, so that the slight illuminations couldn’t be noticed by anyone on the ground. John felt a sinking feeling weigh down in the pit of his stomach as that led to the logical conclusion that this was intended for someone in the air to see.

John swooped in, scanning the area quickly and reinforcing his barriers before landing on the rooftop. He looked around for any potential hiding places that an enemy might take advantage of, but the surface of the roof was entirely flat save for a slender ventilation tube off to his right. Nevertheless, John formed the wind around him like armor, not letting his guard drop for a second.

As he strode into the middle of the roof, John discovered a portable strobe light pointed straight up. John nudged the innocuous device with his boot, half expecting that it might trigger a detonation, but it did nothing but slip the light away from the white cue card partially hidden underneath it. Wearily, John bent and slipped the piece of paper out from underneath it, before holding it up to the light so that he could read the short, typed note.

**This was for you. We don’t appreciate meddling. Dockyards, Dock C, by midnight. We chose an empty facility this time. Next time we won’t be as generous. Don’t keep us waiting.**

**\- MC**

John crumpled the note in his fist and let it fall to the roof, anger rising up inside of him as he processed the threat. The Midnight Crew wanted a fight, and they were willing to sacrifice innocent people and wreck his town until they got what they wanted.

John growled lowly, the wind whipping up in response to his emotions, the tightly-wound barrier coming undone in a massive gust that sent clouds of smoke rolling away from his location in the same way that waves of water rippled out from the drop of a stone into an otherwise calm pond.

By the time this night was over, the Midnight Crew was going to regret ever having wished to pick a fight with him.

///

John didn’t waste time hanging around the rooftop to contemplate his next move. Even without checking the small watch he kept stowed in one of his pouches, he knew midnight was rapidly approaching. He couldn’t afford to be indecisive, not with the clock ticking down like a Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. Just as the Midnight Crew wanted. The timing of the fire and the conditions on the cue card were obviously planned to be tight. They wanted him off guard, and didn’t want to give him much time to strategize his plan for a counterattack. He was expected to blindly rush in because they hadn’t left him any other option.

He flew quickly, wondering just how many members of the Midnight Crew would be waiting for him. If he put everything he had into it immediately without giving them a chance to act, he could win even if he was at an extreme numbers disadvantage. It didn’t matter how many people you threw at a hurricane, after all. No matter what, the wind would always wear you down.

Thinking about not holding back gave him pause, however. Even John wasn’t quite sure what the full extent of his power was like. He understood the kind of devastation his physical strength could cause, but he’d long mastered it and could keep it in check as long as he kept a level head. Just how deep his control over the element of wind went was unknown, however, even to him. He’d never really had reason or opportunity to go completely all out, to throw every bit of considerable willpower behind a sustained attack. Definitely not in the city proper. 

The affinity he had with it had started out as hardly a curious whisper and a small offering—a test to judge his worthiness of its curiosity and attention—but it had only grown in strength as he grew older. His bond with the wind had deepened into something unbreakable. The wind had become a constant presence in his life, an omnipresent source of comfort to him that lovingly taught and guided him like a parent. At times, he felt himself to be a part of the wind itself, the breezes that shifted through the air a perfect extension of his limbs. But he had never before tested its connection to the extent he was now considering. He wondered just how far it would bend to his will or rather, just how far would he be permitted to assert himself on it. Tonight seemed like as good a night as any to find out. 

He tried not to think about the fact that it was very likely someone could die, but if this confrontation was going to be anything like he imagined it would be, he might not have much choice in the matter. He just hoped he was ready.

John dropped down near a building in Dock B, sticking to the shadows as he made his way to Dock C while hovering less than a foot off the ground. He ducked behind a warehouse of some sort as he crept closer to the intended meeting spot, keeping his back to the wall as the wind swirled defensively around him as he looked around. The warehouse lights were on and illuminating a large open space of concrete in front of the water, what looked to be like a dry dock. There were too many places where people could hide around the area: crates, equipment, and shipping containers were everywhere, all large enough to hide a man behind or inside.

John pulled the watch out of his pouch. 11:57.

It definitely seemed like the intended meeting spot. They weren’t willing to give up their advantage and be waiting for him in the open, of course. That would have made it far too easy for him to take them out and, unfortunately, they didn’t seem dumb enough to paint such obvious targets on their chests. Time was running out, he knew it was, and he wasn’t willing to risk innocent lives by taking his time with an inevitable conflict. Unless he started throwing wind around at every place someone could be hiding, he had to make a move. Mind made up, John took a step forward into the light where he was sure he’d be spotted.

The wind picked up in alarm almost instantly, howling at him in a way that urged him to turn back. There was only danger going forward, it whispered, danger which it might not be able to protect him from. 

In that brief moment when the wind first picked up and starting tugging at his frame insistently, John wanted to heed its warning. He wanted to allow the wind to pull him into the air, to fly away and not look back. He wanted to be in home or maybe over at Karkat’s, watching movies and just being a normal teenager. But he couldn’t, he reminded himself. He was a hero and his city was in danger. This was something that he had to do.

John looked around, eyes peering into the darkness. He could sense that he was not alone, and could feel the hidden eyes on him, but no one made a move. Everything was eerily quiet. The only sounds that he could pick up on were of waves lightly slapping against the docks and a few far-off sirens answer the call to help battle the factory fire. There was no sound of movement, nothing except for the unsettling instinct telling him that he wasn’t alone.

“Save the dramatics and come out. I know you’re there,” John called, trying to sound as confident as he wanted to feel. He was Heir. Criminals were afraid of him. They always _ran_ , because they knew that he could stop them. He could control the wind and crush cars with little effort. This would be a piece of cake, like it always was.

Despite those thoughts, John didn’t feel very much reassured. This was organized crime. It was uncharted territory for him. And the last twenty-four hours had shown that this was much bigger than the stuff he was used to. His dad had told him to be so careful, and here he was rushing headlong into an ambush with no other realistic option to turn to. He was also so young compared to the people he was trying to stand up against; they had probably been members of the Midnight Crew longer than he had been alive. He hadn’t even had his seventeenth birthday yet. 

John closed his eyes briefly and exhaled, tugging on the wind around him as he found his center and steeled himself.

“Someone tell me why you called me here,” he shouted, eyes opening and darting around the darkness. He didn’t have to wait very long for a response.

Slithering out of the shadows to surround him like wraiths, John counted no fewer than twenty people, a mixture of troll and human, all dressed in the same black suits that he had come to expect from this organization. Each of them was carrying the same model of assault rifle John had gotten a taste of the other night, and he was keenly aware of how each and every one of them already had their weapons trained on his body. He kept the wind drawn around him, pulling it in and condensing it before layering it on top of itself in the hopes that he’d be able to protect himself if someone got a bit trigger happy. John wasn’t sure what caliber those guns were sporting, but he knew it would be leagues stronger than any of the small arms fire he’d had to protect himself against previously. Whether that would be a problem or not, John wasn’t sure.

The giant of a man whom John had apprehended the previous day walked forward past the ring of his goons, his stature making him apparent as soon as he made a move. There was a split in his lip from the crash John has caused, but otherwise he was not visibly injured. His previously ripped trenchcoat had been replaced with an identical one, black heart pinned in the same place. He wasn’t carrying a weapon of any kind that John could see, but he somehow still managed to be more intimidating than any of the others. Probably more than all of them combined.

“Hey, kid,” he started. His voice was just as gruff as it had been the previous night, but the casual tone in which he was speaking threw John a little bit. “I didn’t get to properly introduce myself last time. The name’s Boxcars and these guys,” Boxcars jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the men directly behind him, “are my associates.” He took one step towards John and the wind instantly tried to force John to fly up. He couldn’t run, though, not with the threat of further bombings looming over him.

“We had a misunderstanding the other day.” Boxcar’s voice took on a menacing tone when he said “misunderstanding,” like the word was some vile thing that he couldn’t wait to get out of his mouth. “Slick wasn’t too keen on havin’ a little hero try to throw a wrench in our plans. Expansion, and all. Sorry, kid, but it’s nothing personal. Yer just bad fer business.”

“I knew this was a trap, you know,” John growled, glaring around at the assembled thugs as several of them started to fidget. The wind was roaring in his ears, now, the sound sorrowful and low. This was it. John could feel their short conversation reaching an end. They were planning on killing him, right then and there, as if he were nothing more than a minor inconvenience that needed solving. They were not going to take him down without a fight, however.

Boxcars just shrugged his shoulders and nodded almost solemnly as he agreed with John. “Yeah. I know. But you came, anyways. You hero types always do.” Gone was the menace from his voice, and instead there was something somber there. It confused John for a second, because the man had almost sounded a bit wistful.

John’s focus snapped back into place and his muscles tensed for action when Boxcars raised his right arm, causing every single one of the thugs to level their weapons in unison. The clicking of safeties being flicked off thrummed in his ears like the sharp beats of a drum, and John’s eyes darted around as he tried to judge who would make the first move.

_Don’t hesitate,_ John told himself as he reached slowly around his back, his gloved hand finding purchase on Casey’s handle. Everything was silent for a long, tense moment, save for the mournful wailing of the wind in John’s ear.

“So long, kid.”

Boxcars threw his hand down in a sweeping gesture.

John jerked Casey from her sheath and pulled the wind tightly around himself.

“Fire!”

The silence of the night was broken by sharp flashes of light and the staccato of gunfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sgt.: Yes, that was a mean cliffhanger. No, I don't regret it. Muahaha. So, our first villain arc is the Midnight Crew! How many of you guessed they might be first up? As always, be sure to join our tumblr if you haven't already (I'm too lazy to link it, just check the notes for another chapter). 
> 
> See you guys next time!
> 
> Chief Writer - Bananaramses  
> Plot/Editor - SergeantMeow  
> Illustrator - Panicismyrain


	8. In Which Partners Are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When we last left Heir, he was caught in the middle of a blatant Midnight Crew trap. Will he be able to escape, or is this the hero's swan song?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: Blood, Violence, Minor Character Death

/ / /

There was a suspended moment before the first bullets reached him, time seeming to slow as the light from the muzzle flashes less than fifteen yards away caused flowers of fire to bloom on his retinas. John counted one, two, three beats of his heart pounding against his chest before the bullets managed to reach his tightly compacted barrier. 

The first bullet impacted against the invisible shield inches from his right shoulder before it flattened and fell, having no noticeable effect except for causing a rippling wave to shiver through the air. The second reached him before the first had fallen an inch, the bullet pressing down on the rippling barrier and causing the wind to pinch slightly against the hero's skin as it crumpled and rebuffed the bullet’s attack. After two long, agonizing seconds in which the mobsters kept their fingers depressed on their triggers, the forty-third bullet to strike his straining barrier managed to transfer its full kinetic energy directly to his body, causing each impact after it to feel like a solid punch landing against his chest. 

Each subsequent blow was like a blow to his confidence, as John could literally feel his barrier being chipped away. He grit his teeth tight and tightened his grip on Casey’s shaft as he sent every bit of willpower he had into maintaining it, his mind racing through his possible options as he searched for a way out of this.

Any chances he had of escaping back the way he’d come were dashed as he saw out of his peripheral vision that the thugs who had been directly behind him had each taken up position behind the crates and boxes littered around the dock, their weapons trained on his back in case he attempted to retreat that way. That was a risky plan, putting their own men in danger of being struck by friendly fire, but it was effective in keeping John pinned where he was. 

Though each impact was painful, John pushed the pain away to a place that he couldn’t feel it, clearing his mind and centering himself. It was hard to concentrate with his body jerking from the force of the impacts, but he had little choice but to weather it if he was going to be successful in his next move.

Ignoring the rule to never take your eyes from your enemy, John let his eyelids slide shut as the outside world faded to something muted, the sounds of gunfire becoming nothing more than the gentle pops of a child’s fireworks. 

Taking a slow, deep breath, John reached deep within himself and sought the mental tug that he’d long come to associate with his connection to the wind. Its gentle sway was a constant sensation always just at the edges of his consciousness, the feeling subdued enough so that it was never more than a mild itch in the back of his mind. 

When he reached the source of the tug, John took a moment to observe it, the formless sensation given shape as a rushing river of air inside his thoughtscape. This was the tether between himself and the wind, the bond that connected their wills together. John had always been cautious in how he treated the link, always aware that there lurked beneath the immediate surface a broiling hurricane of power, tempting to him in its allure but frightening in its potential. John had never more than skimmed the depths of this connection for fear of what might happen if he ever truly let loose. Now, with the impacts of bullets against his barrier shaking his bones to the point that he was feeling it through his meditative calm, John concentrated on wrapping his awareness around that hum of power, the wind starting to sing in his ears as it sensed his intention. And then, with a sharp intake of breath, John _pulled_.

Back in reality, the results of his action were immediate.

The wind which had been whipping up against the hero’s form stilled completely for a fraction of a second, the pressure of the air increasing exponentially, before it literally exploded outward with a surge of energy. Invisible tendrils of wind shout out from around him in a crashing wave, his enemies halting their fire to try and ground themselves against the display of power. With a single thought of “defend,” the tendrils began to swirl and coalesce, wrapping around his form and hugging him tightly until, moments later, John was floating in the eye of a miniature tornado, his blue eyes glowing brightly behind his goggles as they thrummed with power.

There was stunned silence from the gangsters for a precious few moments while everyone on the dock openly stared at the spectacle in front of their eyes, the hero having never before presented any indication that he was hiding this much power. While it was comparatively small for a natural tornado and had yet to pick up enough detritus to become fully visible, it was still an impressive demonstration of John’s true potential. The stupor of the crowd was broken as a very small wooden box, having been picked up by the howling winds, crashed into one of the lighted poles placed around the dock, the debris smashing into the floodlight and bathing that area of the dock in darkness in a shower of broken glass. As guns were once again drawn and barrel-mounted flashlights activated, the perimeter of gangsters spread out, giving the hero a much wider berth as they resumed firing.

John grunted as the firing resumed, though this time there wasn’t even a tickle against his senses to indicate the impact of bullets. As soon as they were entering the wind’s path, the projectiles were being snatched out of the air and consumed by the vortex. Still, reining in the overwhelming power vibrating through his veins and resonating with the wind was taking its toll, and John could feel sweat starting to roll down his forehead after just a few moments.

It wasn’t that the hero was having any trouble keeping the tornado going; it was just the opposite, in fact. The winds whipping around him were pulling at his control, calling to him, begging him to give in to its power and threatening to swallow him whole as it strained against his tight hold on it, its wild nature yearning for freedom. It would’ve been easy to give in, John knew, but he wasn’t sure what would happen if he did. Something deep inside him told him that this would be a monumentally bad idea, and he wasn’t willing to test that feeling anytime soon. 

The winds were starting to pick up dust and debris now, becoming much harder to see out of. John could just make out the Midnight Crew thugs a few dozen yards in front of him, the muzzle flashes still flaring, their flashlights pointed steadily at his form in the middle of the maelstrom.

John barely heard a muffled call from beyond the dark curtain of wind, the words themselves swallowed by the roar of air around him. The popping sounds of the guns ceased, but John wasn’t sure if it was to reload or to strategize against him. The latter seemed more likely, since up until that point they had been staggering their fire so that there had never been a pause in the hailstorm of bullets. The fact of the matter, he supposed, was that they were at a bit of a standoff, the Midnight Crew unable to reach him with their weapons and John unable to fight back for fear of not being able to control the power he’d already let loose. With the amount of force he had at his disposal at that moment, he’d be just as likely to completely obliterate the dock as he would be to take out the bad guys.

Simply flying away wasn’t an option. He now had the cover needed to pull off such a maneuver successfully, but running away had never been possible. He’d made that decision the moment he’d read the Midnight Crew’s note. To leave now would be to turn his back on the innocents of his city, and besides, the hero never ran away.

Running through the only options he had left, John frowned in thought, keeping half his attention on the gangsters he could now barely see outside of the violently swirling winds. With the power of the wind coursing through his veins like he’d had a shot of pure adrenaline to the heart, he didn’t doubt that he could keep the barrier spinning until they realized the futility of their attacks and left. It was the aforementioned problem of keeping it all under control that was worrying him. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to do it soon; the tornado had already started to pick up in intensity, the winds feeding on John’s emotions and the desire to protect its avatar as well as it’s nearly uncontrollable desire to run rampant and be free.

Directing the wind at any one source could prove too unpredictable. He’d be just as likely to blast a person five miles as he would ten feet. Dispersing the wind altogether wouldn’t work, either, as that would leave him in the same predicament he had been in earlier, with a barrage of bullets coming dangerously close to punching through his regular barrier. Maybe he could direct the majority of the winds out onto the waters while retaining some for his own use? That was a thought, but John wasn’t sure that he had the control to pull something like that off in his current state. Still, it was the best thing he could think of at the moment.

John bent his knees low and readied himself to leap higher into the air to begin his counter-attack, his muscles tensing as he redirected a strong gust under his legs. Just as he was about to kick off his windy platform, he noticed movement beyond the wall of swirling air. 

Boxcars was making gestures with his hands, and the others were flocking to his side. John saw that even the men who had positioned themselves at his rear were withdrawing, moving around the edges of his tornado to stand alongside their partners in crime. The lights from the gun-mounted flashlights never wavered from his form, however, indicating that they all still had their guns trained on him. As he watched, the large figure that he assumed to be Boxcars held out his hand, and what appeared to be a troll pulled something from inside his jacket and put it in Boxcars’s hand. John squinted in an attempt to make out the identity of the object, but the poor lighting combined with the now dark-grey winds surrounding him were not very good conditions for seeing a fist-sized object fifteen yards away with any clarity.

John didn’t have long to be curious before Boxcars hurled the object directly at his position, the wind catching it and orbiting it around him as soon as it made contact with the funnel. As his eyes followed its silhouette, John’s heart nearly leapt into his throat as realized exactly what it was.

A grenade. 

John’s reaction was instinctual as he dropped Casey and brought his arms up to bear in a defensive gesture, the wind around him condensing in front of his arms at the same time as it tried to expel the grenade from its clutches. But it was too late for that.

John had just enough time to urge the force of his tornado against the weapon’s side before it literally blew up in his face.

The hero was rewarded for his efforts by not immediately being killed. Rather than having his organs liquefied inside his body, John felt a blast of force surround him and press against his hastily erected barrier, squeezing him as if he were in a vice. In the next second, John felt himself being propelled violently from the center of his vortex, passing through the barrier of wind and out the other side, his flight completely out of control. The whole experience seemed eerily calm to John, though that probably had something to do with the fact that the only thing he could hear was a persistent ringing.

In the seconds before he connected with the ground, John managed to twist his body midair so that at the very least his head wouldn’t take the brunt of his inevitable impact. What little wind that had been skirting the outer layer of the funnel rushed at him with alarm, bending together to try and cushion his fall. Despite its efforts, John still connected with the ground too hard and too fast, the resulting stab of pain from where his left shoulder met the concrete leaving him gasping.

John lay there for an agonizingly long second, trying to force his thoughts through the pain, before the reality of the situation slammed in on him like a ton of bricks. There were no flashlights trained on him just then, but he all the same couldn’t afford to lay there and nurse his wounds; his life was in danger. He couldn’t afford to stay still. The teen took in a sharp breath as he tried to push himself up, the faint smell of burnt fabric filling his nose as smoke rose from his singed costume. The alarming stab of pain which spread from his shoulder across his chest made itself known again, and John became distinctly aware of a wet sensation slowly trailing down the left side of his face. His ears were still ringing, but hopefully he’d only been temporarily deafened. 

Ignoring the pain in his shoulder as best he could, John rolled to a crouch, only just then realizing that Casey was no longer firmly gripped in one hand. His body wobbled as his vision suddenly swam, so he steadied himself by pressing his right hand firmly against the ground, drawing in a long, slow breath.

He was brought out of his stupor when, with an angered howl that John didn’t hear but certainly felt, the tornado completely unraveled without its master’s influence, the resulting wave pushing out and crashing over everything within its range and shoving it all sharply backwards, including John himself. For the second time in under a minute, John was thrown from where he was and collided painfully against the ground. The hero was content with the knowledge that he probably hadn’t been the only one to hit the ground that time, however.

John allowed his aching body a few moments of rest as he laid still, a jagged bit of gravel from the concrete dock digging into his cheek, but he paid that no mind. He was jolted into action when the wind carried to him a sharp warning and several flashlights fell on his form. His hands pointed straight at the ground, John instantly generated two bursts of concentrated air and let them fly, the concussive blasts picking him up from his prone position and throwing him backwards at least a dozen feet. The move hurt like hell as his left shoulder screamed in agony, but John counted his blessings as he noticed a hail of bullets impacting where he’d just been, the bullets burrowing into the ground and sending chips of cement into the air. That had been too close.

Whether by the wind’s guidance or through sheer luck, he landed in a controlled crouch beside a small forklift placed near the edge of the pier. Taking stock of his fortune, John quickly tucked himself behind it, slumping down with his back pressed to the large piece of machinery. He was thankful for the temporary cover from his opponents, but he didn’t exactly feel all that safe at the moment. The teen dared a hurried glance over the forklift’s cab to gauge his opponent’s movements, but besides the pair that had just fired on him, most seemed to only just be collecting themselves off of the ground. John had maybe a minute to himself if his luck continued, more if no one had caught where he had been blasted to moments prior. He needed to use the time wisely.

Assessing the damage done to his body was his first priority. A serious injury meant having to adjust his method of fighting to accommodate, and he needed to be as effective as possible when he inevitably made his position known and was forced to fight. Sound was beginning to trickle in through his right ear again as he crouched against the metal frame of the forklift, which John considered a small victory. His left ear continued to ring despite its counterpart’s progress, which was making it hard to judge the distance of the shouts he was now hearing. Almost hesitantly, he touched his right hand to his left ear, his gloved fingers coming away damp with blood. That was troubling. If his eardrum had been damaged, that could mean a whole host of issues, the least of which being possible permanent hearing loss. John clamped that fear down as soon as it arose; you had to be alive to have hearing loss, after all, and that meant surviving this ordeal. At least his inner ear wasn’t damaged enough to throw off his equilibrium, a fact which John considered a small blessing.

The next injury he catalogued was his still throbbing left shoulder and arm. A probing diagnostic of the area with his fingers revealed a distended bump in the front of his shoulder that was very tender to the touch. It took John a moment of running through his symptoms before he realized what exactly he was touching. He’d only ever dislocated a shoulder once before, and that had been his right during a particularly heated sparring practice several years prior. This was good news, as John would take a dislocated shoulder over a separated or broken shoulder any day, even though he was still risking nerve damage and despite the fact that it would hurt like hell to properly realign the bone into the socket. Though he hadn’t enjoyed it much at the time, John now considered it fortunate that his father had guided him through setting his own shoulder, appreciating for once that his dad was fond of employing the tough love approach. Had the man done it for him that first time, this situation would be looking a lot bleaker; John might have been stuck with an increasingly painful dislocated shoulder until he found his way home.

First things first, he let his fingers gingerly ghost over his arm and shoulder, checking for any fractures or damage that could have been done to his humerus that might prevent a safe or effective setting. Finding nothing, the hero slowly stood up on shaky legs, bracing his back against the forklift. He took a step forward, letting his arm hang limply at his side before bending his back. Grabbing his left hand with his right and then shifting his body to rotate his shoulder, John could feel the pressure mount until, with an audible lurch, the shoulder slipped back into place on its own. The hero grit his teeth as a jolt of pain flared sharply above his chest, but after that the relief was almost immediate. Using his right hand to pull and rotate the appendage ensured that the realignment was at least sound, so John was satisfied with that. The movement of his arm felt a little too stiff as he tested it out, but stiffness was the least of his concerns at the moment. He could assess possible rotator cuff damage when he wasn’t being shot at with assault rifles. When he lifted his arm, the acute pang of pain from his collarbone made him hiss under his breath. He did his best to ignore it; if the bone there was broken, it was something that could only heal with time or surgery.

John leaned against the forklift, listening with his good ear cocked to the movements and shouts from the Midnight Crew. All things told, he actually considered himself pretty lucky. What he had just come out of could have left him with a lot worse than a dislocated shoulder, one potentially burst eardrum, and a broken collarbone. If he hadn’t caught sight of the grenade when he had, he could have been torn to pieces by the force of the explosion or been knocked unconscious and left to the mercies of the Midnight Crew. He wasn’t always going to be as lucky as he had been, especially against opponents who were not fucking around. A lesson for the future, assuming he walked away from this.

At the very edges of his senses, John could hear the muted but familiar sirens of the police off in the distance, though he was unable to judge just how far away they were. He cursed internally, knowing that this fight now had a set time limit; at this point, the only thing the arrival of the police would mean would be a rise in the number of potential casualties. He didn’t want to pull the local law enforcement into a battle that would probably require S.W.A.T. to put down. One way or another, he needed to finish this soon.

The wind swirled with alarm at the same time as a host of gun-mounted flashlights lit up the forklift, alerting John to the fact that the bad guys were back in position and closing in. Almost as if on cue, bullets began to pepper the side of the forklift, causing him to duck quickly back against its frame. 

This was not a favourable position to be in. There was nothing except exposed space to either side of the forklift and the Midnight Crew undoubtedly had weapons trained on the air directly above it, so flying was out. There was some merit to the idea of diving off the dock behind him, but he wasn’t keen on finding out firsthand how cold those waters were or how difficult it was to fight while being weighed down by wet clothes. If he flew straight out and kept low to the water he could maybe circle around his enemy without them noticing, but that too was risky. He’d be a sitting duck out on the open waters, just as if he left his cover to fight on the dock.

Taking stock of his surroundings, John spotted Casey laying in a pile of chipped and splintered cement not a few feet from his cover. Crouching as closely to the edge of the forklift as he could, John quickly reached out for her with his uninjured arm, closing his hand around the handle and wrenching the warhammer back just as several streams of bullets burst into existence in the space where his arm had just occupied moments prior. Someone among the Midnight Crew was quite the shot. 

The hero licked his lips, swallowing down salt and the sharp, coppery taste of blood. 

As safety glass tinkled harmlessly on John’s hooded head from a few shots impacting the forklift’s cab, the teen reached up and pulled his mask down. Turning to the side, he spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground, his eyes closing behind his goggles as he re-affixed his mask. 

The vibrations of the gunfire impacting against the forklift thrummed at his back, and for the first time John felt himself losing some of the confidence he had built up. In his half a decade of crime-fighting, no one had ever injured him like this before. No one had ever caught him this off-guard. But then again, nobody had ever gone so far as to bomb a building just to get his attention, either. Not until these men had appeared in his city and shown him something he might not be capable of stopping. The Midnight Crew was overwhelming him and, for a moment, he felt the fear he had been holding back creeping into his awareness. They wanted his blood and they weren’t going to stop until they had it.

With a mental push that felt almost physical, John squashed those feelings ruthlessly, his shoulder giving a thrum of pain as if to remind him that it still existed. He wasn’t going to let them take Heir down this easily. Not while they still posed such a significant threat to his city.

Gripping Casey with his good hand high up on her shaft so that he could more easily wield her one-handed, John gathered the wind around him once again, its presence both reassuring and worrisome as it pressed down lightly against his shoulders as if warning him to just stay put in the relative safety of his shelter and not go into danger again.

John squashed the warning just as he had squashed his fears, shoving it somewhere in the back of his mind where it wouldn’t make itself known. He most likely didn’t have long before the police arrived, and he wanted this done by the time that they did. And that meant he had to move.

Just as he was about to take his chances and hope that his re-formed barriers would last long enough for him to either fly to a safer vantage point or begin his counterattack, something peculiar caught his attention. Along with the more insistent tugging of the wind that he remain in place, the noises of his surroundings were changing. 

At first he wasn’t positive, what with one ear still providing nothing but static, but after a few moments he quickly realized that there were distinctively fewer guns firing than there had been moments ago. As John listened and focused in on the sound, the number of shots ringing in the air continued to steadily decrease. Odd.

His curiosity getting the better of him, John tightened and focused his barrier before he peeked his head over the edge of the forklift, his eyes quickly taking in the scene. The gangsters were arranged in a very loose box formation, the bright flashlights letting John know that there were about a dozen of them left, with Boxcars standing at their center. It looked like Boxcars was directing them to stagger their fire so that there were always bullets in the air, while the few off to either sides were keeping their barrels aimed upwards in anticipation. There looked to be two more thugs approaching his position off to the side, most likely hoping to catch him by surprise while the rest of the Crew held him pinned to that one spot. It was probably because they were all so focused on him that they were entirely unaware of what was going on behind them. 

As John watched, a shadow of black and red darted just past the last row of men and pulled an unsuspecting goon back into the darkness, the troll’s flashlight disappearing and not coming back on. The next one to go went just as quickly, though this time John managed to spot a familiar gloved hand wrapping itself around the man’s mouth and a pair of glowing eyes before he was jerked back, his gun clattering to the ground uselessly as he flailed his arms in surprise. The last member on that row seemed to realize what was happening, because John saw him turn around with a start and aim his gun into the darkness. A svelte figure was illuminated for the briefest of seconds before the gun was knocked from the man’s grasp, his body soon being pulled into the darkness just as his companions’ were. That was three thugs downed in a mere handful of seconds. There was only one person John knew of with that kind of speed and ability.

His suspicions were confirmed when, a moment later, his fellow hero stepped out of the darkness into the pale light of one of the few remaining working street lamps on the dock. Hemogoblin stood still only for a second, his neon red eyes alighting on John’s position for a brief instant before he moved to take out yet another unsuspecting target.

John’s pulse picked up as he pulled himself fully back behind the forklift before he got himself shot for staring for too long. How did the troll know to come here? Despite his earlier concern that the troll might get caught up in the Midnight Crew’s move to get rid of Heir, it had never really occurred to him that Hemogoblin might end up coming to his rescue, if only for the fact that the dockyards were a considerable distance from what he’d figured to be the troll’s normal patrol route. It was possible that he had somehow been diverted away from the bomb by whatever call had alerted the police to the shootout, though that seemed far-fetched; Hemogoblin was fast when he moved along the rooftops, faster than John could probably be were he to try traveling without the aid of the wind, but to get here before the police did was a stretch. Whatever his reason for being at the docks, however, John wasn’t going to complain. With an ally on his side, this fight was starting to seem a lot less hopeless.

Inspired by how readily Hemogoblin leapt into the action, John affixed Casey in her holder and squared his shoulders against the edge of the forklift, clamping his fingers around the bottom of the frame. Bending his knees low, he expelled a single breath before he heaved up and back with everything he had, at the same time sending as strong of a gale against the machine as he could manage in such a localized spot. He ignored the pain in his body as he pushed, and, with a heave of exertion, the multi-tonne forklift was sent toppling onto its side, the crash of metal and glass hopefully serving to further distract the Crew from noticing that they were up against two heroes now. 

John wasted no time in leveraging his good shoulder against the machine and pushing its unbalanced frame roughly, the metal screeching loudly against the concrete as it warped and deformed, the teen moving directly towards his enemies with his feet leaving gouges where he dug in and pushed. The shots picked up in frequency as every one of the remaining members frantically tried to stop his march forward, but their bullets were wasted as they slammed into the makeshift shield. 

As John reached the point where he had noticed a few of the thugs trying to sneak around the sides, he pulled the wind around him for protection, ready and expecting the sharp punches of rounds that would connect against him as soon as he left cover. With Hemogoblin there, that didn’t seem like such a frightening prospect anymore.

Without wasting a beat, John ceased pushing and rushed to his left, jetting out from behind his cover with the wind propelling him. He flew low and fast, catching his enemy off guard with the surprising boldness of his intention. Focusing on the first gunman he saw, John barreled straight into him without letting up on his speed, knocking the startled man a good meter back. The male toppled over from the force, winded but not unconscious, though John thought he’d heard something crack upon making contact. John landed beside him, delivering a swift boot to the temple to assure that the goon wouldn’t be rejoining this fight. 

Just as he looked up from his victim, a bullet slammed into the barrier directly over his injured shoulder, causing the teen to wince behind his mask. With not a second to lose, John pushed through the air as quickly as he could, dodging as much of the sporadic gunfire as possible and flicking the rest away with tendrils of wind. Out of his peripheral vision, John saw that Hemogoblin’s presence had finally been noticed, as three men now had him surrounded. Two had exchanged their initial weapons for knives, rifles nowhere in sight, while the third appeared to be trying to aim his rifle. John trusted that the hero could take care of them on his own, especially when one was dumb enough to try and aim a rifle in such extremely close quarters.

With a twirl to avoid his gunfire, John landed next to a troll with a wild mane of curly black hair and vertical horns. Twisting his head to the side to avoid a jab from the butt of the troll’s rifle, John lashed out and gripped at the thug’s shoulder with his left hand. He was just about to take the troll down when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed what the troll’s companions were doing. With a tight grip on the clean black cloth of his expensive suit, John twisted his hand swiftly backward, causing the troll to stumble with the momentum. He quickly let go and pushed the opposite shoulder, spinning the troll violently around so that his back was facing John, John’s hand grabbing the troll’s arm and wrenching it high behind his back so that he was incapacitated. There was little time for the thug to struggle before bullets pounded into John’s makeshift living shield, the troll’s body shaking as he was intentionally shot in an attempt to hit the hero.

John tried to tune out the cries of pain from the troll, reassuring himself that each member of the group was probably outfitted with at least a kevlar jacket, as well financed as they were. As soon as the fire lessened and John heard the dropping of spent magazines to the ground, the troll slumped, one leg giving out from under him before he went completely limp, a trickle of green blood leaking from his lips.

John didn’t have the time to observe the troll’s damage as he moved forward to take down his next target, easily lifting the unconscious troll out in front of him with a single hand, wary of another attack. He quickly scanned the area, looking for the one who’d just taken shots at him. 

Not many of the thugs were left. Boxcars wasn’t making a move towards either Hemogoblin or Heir, seemingly content to stand and watch as chaos unfolded around him, an annoyed scowl on his face. That was a bit contrary to what John thought he knew of the man’s character, but it was possible that the mobster was planning something. He was smart enough to know that with all the violence happening around him, his inaction would prevent him from becoming an immediate target for either hero.

Across the dockyard, John saw a man struggling to reload, inexpertly trying to clear what appeared to be a jam by trying to force the magazine to load. That was probably the one who had just fired at him, John surmised, owing to the fact that everyone else in his immediate surroundings seemed to be focusing on the brawl with Hemogoblin. As he watched, the man threw down his rifle in frustration and pulled out a pistol from behind his back. Contrary to what John thought he’d do next, the man turned his sights on the beleaguered Hemogoblin, raising the pistol to shoulder height and sighting his target down the end of the barrel, taking careful aim. Aim at the hero who currently had his back to the man.

John reached behind his back, grabbed Casey by the handle, and threw her without a second thought, his eyes widening a split second after the hammer had left his hand as he realized what he had just done; Casey was no toy, and she was not to be used lightly. John’s eyes followed her path as she spun through the air once, twice, and then impacted with an audible crunch against the middle of the man’s chest, John’s aim having been perfect. The thug, immediately knocked back by the force of the hammer’s blow, dropped to the ground like a puppet that had had its strings cut, Casey clattering to the ground next to him. The man lay there silently, unmoving except for a series of jerking spasms that racked his body.

John averted his gaze as soon as he confirmed that the man wasn’t getting back up again, doing his best to quit replaying the sound of the man’s chest crunching that he’d heard clearly even with only one properly working ear. He had other things to concern himself with at the moment.

John tossed his troll shield at a man standing close by, the bullet-riddled troll falling limply into the other shooter. The hero threw a sphere of wind at the man’s head as he fell back under the weight of his compatriot’s body, his alarmed eyes clouding into unconsciousness as they both collapsed. That left only a handful still standing that were unengaged with one of the heroes, huddled in a group as they tried to figure out their next course of action. Of course, Boxcars himself was still standing in the middle of it all, looking more and more aggravated by the apparent failings of his lackeys. He’d be saved for last.

As John watched, the group of three Midnight Crew thugs who had been off to the side made their move to join the fight with Hemogoblin, most likely choosing him over John because the troll was closest. Without hesitation, John shot up into the air, pushing himself up into the sky before twisting his body into a dive. He slammed back down into the ground half a dozen yards away from where he had taken off, effectively taking the group who had been ready to rush the troll by surprise. His fists became gloved with sheaths of concentrated air as he then made swift work of the group, delivering a rapid series of right jabs to the heads of each thug. Within seconds, all three were dropping simultaneously to the floor, unconsciousness having already claimed each of them. They really shouldn’t have turned their backs to him.

Hemogoblin didn’t seem to notice John’s actions, being so engrossed in his own battle. From what John could observe, though, the fight was still skewed entirely in his favor despite his numerical disadvantage. As he watched, John’s eyes caught something strange as Hemogoblin snapped his arm forward in a quick swipe.

A dark blade was curving out of the troll’s wrist in the unmistakable form of a sickle, and for a brief, panicked moment, John thought that maybe the hero had been stabbed. But as his arm twisted, Hemogoblin connected the blade smoothly with the back of another troll’s hand, causing the troll to drop his knife and leaving a stream of yellow blood in its wake. As Hemogoblin brought up his other arm in a guard, John noted an identical blade in the same position on his other wrist, meaning they were obviously the hero’s own.

John wondered briefly how they were secured and where Hemogoblin could possibly have hidden something so noticeable when he wore a costume that left very little to the imagination, when what he was actually seeing clicked. The sickle blades weren’t strapped to his wrists; they were _coming out of them_. John would have never guessed that when Hemogoblin had said that he had his own tricks up his sleeve that he was talking about retractable knives under his skin. That explained at least part of the strange modification to his gloves, John thought.

As Hemogoblin knocked down the very last of his opponent by opening up a long, bloody gash on the man’s torso, John turned to face the commander of the failed firing squad. Boxcars was occupying himself with casually surveying the battlefield, his eyes glancing over his fallen men with little interest, a look of mild disgust pulling at his features rather than any kind of concern for their or his own safety. The lower rungs of the Midnight Crew were disposable to him, apparently, as his disregard for what he was seeing showed clearly in his icy eyes. Without a care in the world, he turned his back on John completely, taking a few long strides before he bent down to retrieve his hat, which he dusted off slightly before standing and placing it back upon his bald head.

Keeping himself alert to the last opponent still left standing, John cautiously walked over to where Casey lay. Boxcars followed John with his eyes but otherwise didn’t make a move, not even making an attempt to prevent John from retrieving his hammer. John was glad for the distraction that Boxcars was providing, as keeping his eyes glued on the man meant that he didn’t have to look at the victim of Casey’s earlier flight, who, he noted out of his peripheral vision, had not budged an inch since his body had stopped convulsing. John pulled Casey up from the ground and hefted her back into her sling, angling it so that he could draw her at a moment’s notice. Stealing a glance at the body, John noted a dent in the man’s chest and a ring of bloody froth around his mouth, remnants of his earlier convulsions. He turned his gaze back on Boxcars after only a second, but that brief glance had been long enough to reaffirm that he never wanted to use Casey against a living opponent again unless absolutely necessary.

As he squared himself against the last remaining mobster, Hemogoblin silently slipped into place next to him, his presence reassuring as they both edged closer to the criminal. Boxcars’s eyes never left John’s own as he allowed them to draw nearer unimpeded, his hands balled into fists at his sides. When the pair was less than ten feet away, his voice rumbled through the air, causing them both to stop and tense.

“Hadn’t heard there were two of you heroes in this city.” Though menacing, there was also a bit of resignation in his tone, which set John on edge far more effectively than having the man rail at him could. If there was one thing to never underestimate, it was a criminal at his wit’s end. “Looks like I’m the only one left, huh?”

Boxcars sighed, his eyes flashing a hint of resignation, before the man rolled one of his massive shoulders, the action causing both heroes to tense further. As they looked on, Boxcars slid off his outer jacket to reveal a white button-up and red suspenders. As the man folded his jacket and placed it carefully on one of the smaller crates next to him, John caught a glimpse of something metallic hanging from a clip on his lower back. When Boxcars’s reached a hand behind his back and grabbed for the obvious weapon, John instinctively pulled the wind tight in a barrier around himself before spreading its influence to cover Hemogoblin. The troll obviously noticed something, because John saw him out of the corner of his eye turning slightly to offer him an incredulous glance. That only lasted for a second before both of their attentions were brought to the fore as Boxcars withdrew his hands from his back.

John felt his eyes widening and his control over the barriers slipping a little bit as what he expected to be a gun of some sort turned out to be a pair of simple knuckle dusters, absolutely plain except for the raised bumps on each knuckle that John soon realized were hearts. That was definitely not the kind of weapon John was expecting the man to use against two opponents, but he’d learned by now not to underestimate anyone. The weapons that Boxcars was now sliding onto his hands were meant to maim.

“You know the police will be here any minute, right?” John asked, hoping to dissuade the mobster from forcing them into an unnecessary brawl. It was plain to see that the Midnight Crew was defeated, so there was really no point in the man fighting. Boxcars, however, didn’t seem to see it that way.

“Have to make this quick, then.”

John sighed softly, steeling himself. It looked like this was going to have to happen the hard way. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try and stall for a bit. Contrary to what the situation had been several minutes earlier, now that the rest of the Crew was down and there was only one opponent, the addition of officers with guns could only help.

“This would be easier for everyone if you just gave up. You don’t have any chance of winning against the both of us, you know. You’re not getting out of this, no matter what you do.”

The large man adjusted his knuckle dusters more firmly on his hands, a strange, sardonic grin stretching his face as he nodded acquiescence to John’s words. “I know that. But we both know that surrender was never an option for me,” the thug growled, his stance shifting to what John recognized as an orthodox upright boxing stance, his arms held up near eye level with his left arm leading, his brass knuckles looking especially vicious in the low light.

John thought about that for a moment before nodding. Boxcars wasn’t the type to go down quietly, even if he knew his situation was hopeless. And that made him dangerous. 

A knee nudged his own. John looked over at Hemogoblin out of the corner of his eye, the troll’s luminescent eyes shining at him out from under his hood.

“I go in from the right; you take the left. Deal?” John turned his head more, taking in the fierce expression on Hemogoblin’s face. Those sharp, aristocratic features looked prepared to do battle. Curiosity getting the better of him, John looked down at the troll’s wrists, seeking to confirm his earlier suspicions about the origins of those blades.

That moment of distraction cost him. 

In the time it took John to note their dark, crimson coloring, Boxcars had crossed the distance between them with a speed that was totally belied by his large size. The only indication John had that something was about to happen was the tensing of Hemogoblin’s muscles and the wind’s sharp, insistent tug telling him to move.

John brought his arms up in a cross-guard out of pure instinct before he’d managed to even turn his head towards Boxcars, the action most likely saving him another broken bone as Boxcars’s brass-covered fist slammed into his armguard with enough force to dent the metal plate and send vibrations up and down his arm, culminating in his previously injured shoulder flaring up painfully before going completely numb. His left arm dropped and hung limply by his side as he propelled himself backwards with the aid of the wind, out of Boxcars’s immediate reach.

The moment John stepped back, Hemogoblin rushed forward to pick up his slack, delivering a one-two punch followed by a sweeping roundhouse to the thug’s head via the troll’s right instep. Though the flurry of blows was an almost blur of movement, Boxcars seemed to have no problem blocking each hit, striking out and knocking each of Hemogoblin’s blows aside almost effortlessly. The troll tried for another jab followed by a swift knee strike to the man’s gut, but again he was rebuffed.

As soon as he had batted away Hemogoblin’s blocked kick, Boxcars stepped forward and lashed out with a blindingly fast left jab that grazed Hemogoblin’s cheek. In a move that appeared almost simultaneous to his jab, he managed a right hook that landed firmly in Hemogoblin’s midsection. The troll flowed with the blow to mitigate the damage and pushed back just as it connected, his left arm lashing out and the blade there scoring a gash along the side of Boxcars’s right hand.

As Hemogoblin retreated a few steps and drew even with John, the teen took a short reprieve to examine his fellow hero for injuries. The troll didn’t seem to even be breathing hard, let alone be in any pain, so he guessed that his effort at evading any damage from that body blow must have been successful. As he watched, however, a cut opened up along the grey skin of the troll’s cheek where he’d been grazed by Boxcars’s fist.

A bead of blood slowly oozed from the cut and then slid down his cheek. A bead of _bright red_ blood. If that wasn’t surprising enough, the troll scowled as soon as he felt the blood tracing a path down his skin and raised a hand and touched his cheek.

As John watched, the trail of blood that had just made its way down Hemogoblin’s cheek actually started _fighting its way back up again_ , completely defying gravity and logic. As John looked on, utterly fascinated, the blood crawled its way back into the cut. And then, just like that, the cut was gone, all evidence of it having been there vanished without a trace as smooth, unblemished grey skin stared back at him. If John hadn’t been wearing his mask, he was pretty sure his jaw would be on the floor at that moment, heated battle or not.

If Hemogoblin noticed his shock, he didn’t say anything, his neon eyes never having left Boxcars, who was carefully examining the cut on his own arm.

“His defense is pretty tight,” Hemogoblin said in a low growl, snapping John out of his stupor. “But he’s still just using boxing; that means he should be open to attacks below the waist. If I go in high and challenge his guard, can you come in low and take out his legs with your arm like that?”

John stared at the troll for a moment, still a little dumbfounded as he tried to process his words. He was just about to answer when Boxcars gave an annoyed growl and shot forward again with impressive speed, causing Hemogoblin to tense up next to him.

And then, with a casual flick of his hand, John sent a concentrated tendril of wind at the man’s legs, causing him to trip and fall flat on his face like a sack of heavy potatoes, his head connecting against the concrete with a crunch.

“Or you could do _that_ , I guess,” Hemogoblin sighed, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as the tension bled out of his body. As John watched, the crimson sickles on the troll’s wrists seemed to...melt, for lack of a better term, before the now-liquid was sucked back into his wrists, the skin where the blades had vanished revealing itself to be just as smooth and unblemished as every other time he’d seen them. It only took John a second to make the connection with what he was seeing now with what he’d seen a few moments before, and the conclusion he came to was rather startling: somehow, Hemogoblin’s alluded abilities included...making blades out of blood? Okay, that was kind of really cool. Unique, for sure, but cool. 

The troll strolled over to the stationary thug, his muscles tensing back up just in case he had to evade some sort of surprise attack, but no attack ever came; Boxcars was not moving. John winced a bit as the first thing Hemogoblin did was to step harshly on each of the man’s hands to keep them pinned as he bent at his knees and wrestled the brass knuckles away from him, before tossing them back to John. Not knowing what to do with them, he let the wind catch them, the pair of weapons floating lazily in front of his face. John crinkled his nose, staring at the vicious implements in disdain. He wasn’t one for such things and neither was he the type to keep trophies, so with a quick toss of his head, the wind chucked them off the side of the dock.

As Hemogoblin withdrew a plastic tie from his thigh holster, cuffed Boxcars’s hands behind his back, and turned him around, all of the good humor bled out of John’s mood. He’d been so happy to be rescued by and fight alongside Hemogoblin that he’d almost forgotten what this man had done to get him to this point. He’d terrorized his city and threatened the innocents under his protection.

His gaze darkening, John strode up next to Hemogoblin and dropped to the ground, his knee instantly finding its way to Boxcars’s throat. Boxcars glared up at him through a re-opened gash on his forehead and a bloody, possibly broken nose. When he opened his mouth, it was to show teeth stained with blood.

“That was low, kid. Couldn’a given me a proper fight?”

John silenced him by increasing his pressure on the thug’s throat, denying him the ability to breathe.

“How do we make this end? Where is your boss?” John punctuated his question by easing off on his knee, allowing Boxcars to breathe in sharply through an open mouth. It didn’t look like he was going to be doing much breathing through that nose anytime soon.

Even though he must have been in pain, maybe even concussed, Boxcars managed a laugh. “You end this by dyin’. And the boss ain’t none of yer concern. He’ll find you when he wants to see you. Try not to get too comfortable until then,” he spat, a mocking grin on his face.

Boxcars wasn’t going to talk, regardless of what either hero did to him, that much was obvious. Considering his position in the Midnight Crew, John hadn’t expected him to, really. 

John growled in anger and frustration, raising his right fist, and then brought it down against Boxcar’s forehead with just enough force to knock him out cold. He was tempted to hit the man again just for good measure, but more violence wasn’t going to solve anything, no matter how good it might make him feel in that moment. It would probably serve them well if he could give the man brain damage, too, take him out of the game permanently. John didn’t trust the judicial system enough to think that the man would face what justice he was owed, but it wasn’t really his place to do something about it. That’s just the way things worked. If Boxcars came after him again, he’d just have to put him down again. As many times as it took.

For now, though, he’d come out victorious. He was a little worse for wear, bruised and beaten more than he’d ever been before, but he was still breathing. That counted as a win for the good guys, in his book.

John pulled himself off the ground, feeling his anger rapidly giving way to exhaustion now that all immediate threats against his life had disappeared. In a blink, Hemogoblin was at his side, helping to steady him as he stood on suddenly shaky legs. Once John had his footing, the troll pulled away but kept the distance between them short in case John lost his balance, his hand resting loosely around John’s waist while his other hovered near his side, ready to support him at a moment’s notice. 

At the moment, John wanted nothing more than to fly home and curl up in bed. He could feel the adrenaline draining from his system like the water from a bathtub that just had its stopper pulled. Add to that the strain from having exerted his powers like never before, and John was one tired hero. But the night was still young, and he still had duties to perform. With a mental sigh and a slight leaning into Hemogoblin’s hand on his back, John began re-cataloging his list of injuries.

Besides the usual bruises and strained muscles, he still had his three main concerns. The hearing in his left ear was still very muffled, which could mean a perforated or ruptured eardrum. That was something that would usually heal on its own but had the potential to progress into deafness if there were any complications. It could even require surgical attention, if it was deemed serious enough. John wasn’t sure if his dad could make the call on that kind of injury, but sometimes the amount of knowledge his dad possessed was surprising. His left shoulder was regaining feeling again, but unfortunately, most of those feelings were pain. 

Pressing his fingers to his collarbone for the second time that night, he found the point where the pain was the most intense and was barely able to stifle a hiss as he gently applied pressure. He could feel the skin bulging noticeably outwards, which pointed to a clavicle fracture. That meant wearing a sling for a good four to eight weeks during the daytime if he wanted the bone to heal properly, and limiting his movement of that arm when out at night on patrol. He couldn’t very well wear a sling into a fight, especially not with the rest of the Midnight Crew gunning for his head. The last thing he needed to do was to advertise his vulnerabilities.

He was so lost in thought that it took John a few moments before he realized that Hemogoblin was silently watching him as he continued to press his hand against his collar. John dropped his hand slowly to his side, his gaze meeting those glowing eyes, their expressive depths revealing a mixture of anticipation and concern. 

He was waiting for Heir to say something, he realized, though what, he wasn’t sure. John didn’t really know what to say, because at that moment, all he could think about was how the beating of his heart must have been loud enough for the other hero to hear, because it was starting to drum a hasty tempo inside of his own head as he became acutely aware of the slight pressure of the troll’s arm around his waist and just how close their faces were. This was the troll he’d been waiting an entire week to meet again, not having seen so much as a glimpse of him outside of his dreams. Speaking of, he was just as beautiful in reality as he was in his dreams, John thought. And then he thought that maybe he should add minor concussion to his list of injuries, as now was not the time to be evaluating the other hero’s attractiveness.

Pulling back slightly so that he could get a full view in the dim lighting, he scanned over the lithe body before him, and was immensely relieved to see that the tight muscles covered in tighter clothing didn’t indicate any signs of injury that he may have missed in his previous assessment. There wasn’t even a scratch on him. John’s dad had been right about the troll being able to take care of himself, for sure. Which brought to mind the question of those blades, and his little healing trick. That had been...something.

Hemogoblin cleared his throat, swiftly drawing John’s attention away from his unmarred wrists back to his smirking face. “Like what you see?”

“Thanks for saving me,” John blurted out, immediately embarrassed by just how much sincerity he’d let slip. He sounded more like an awed citizen after being rescued than a fellow hero. “How did you know to find me here?”

Hemogoblin nodded to himself, unfastening the buckle on one of his thigh pouches to retrieve a crumbled cue card. He held it out, John immediately recognizing it as the one he’d left on the rooftop earlier in the night. “I saw the explosion, saw the strobe light, found the card. Thought you could use the help.”

John smiled sheepishly behind his mask as Hemogoblin put the note away, fastening the buckle of the pouch once more, a small pit of warmth beginning to form in his stomach. He’d found John not too long into the fight, and John knew from his earlier trip over that the dockyard was a fair distance from the factory. That meant he had to have run as fast as he could the entire way to have gotten there when he had, all for his sake. 

“You know, Heir, I’ve been giving this partner thing some thought,” Hemogoblin began rather nonchalantly, his left hand pulling back from John’s side to rest against a cocked hip in a confident pose. He hesitated then, teeth worrying his lower lip for just the briefest of moments before he caught himself, his eyes seeming almost shy when they met John’s again. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try?”

Flashing lights were visibly approaching right outside of the docks, now, alternating bursts of red and blue flickering only a few blocks from their position. They had maybe a minute before they’d get there. 

John turned away from Hemogoblin so that he couldn’t see him before he pulled down his mask and spat out a mouth full of blood for the second time that night, grimacing at the sight before he raised the cover over his face once more. When he turned back to face Hemogoblin, he could feel himself grinning broadly, so much so that it was hurting his still bleeding gums and causing a muscle in his neck to twitch painfully. But that still didn’t stop him.

He had a partner now. He’d asked the troll to be his partner over a week ago, before this headache with the Midnight Crew had started, back when all he wanted was someone else who understood what it meant to be a hero, someone who would empathize with his woes. But now he understood that a partner was more than that. A partner was someone you could entrust your life to, someone who you could count on to bail your ass out of the fire when the heat got too unbearable. 

John reached out his right arm, palm open and expecting. The troll’s eyes flickered uncertainly in the low light, his eyebrows furrowed slightly as if he didn’t know what to make of the human appendage. John grinned at him, and then down at his hand. It took him a moment, but a smile slowly spread across the troll’s face, warm, and happy, and not at all like his usual cocky smirk. Dull but pointy teeth peeked out over plump lips, and John felt his own grin growing despite himself. Despite how monumentally shitty his night had thus far been, in that moment, Hemogoblin looked just as happy as John felt.

Slender, gloved fingers curled around John’s forearm as he mimicked the gesture, unable to keep the warmth out of his voice as he stared into Hemogoblin’s eyes. “Thanks... partner.” All throughout the exchange, John couldn’t get over the feeling of how perfect the embrace felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! I'm not going to bore you with all of the details for why this update took so long, but suffice it to say that life was interfering hardcore for all three of us. I can pretty much guarantee that the next update will come much quicker, as Chapter 9 has already been written and is in the editing stages right now. And whoa, what a chapter it's going to be. It's basically going to be full of all the feels and fluff.
> 
> As always, don't forget to follow us on tumblr at [www.realmenweartights.com](http://realmenweartights.com/) for additional art, stories, and behind-the-scenes content not available anywhere else.
> 
> See you guys next time!  
> -Sgt.
> 
>  **Addendum:** The lovely [Jove](http://jove-bluh.tumblr.com) did some animated fanwork for one of the scenes in this chapter. Check it out [here](http://www.realmenweartights.com/post/50280542665/jove-bluh-a-scene-from-chapter-8-of-real-men/)!
> 
> Head Writer: Bananaramses  
> Plotting/Editing: SergeantMeow  
> Illustrator: Panicismyrain


	9. In Which Innocence is Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character development and fluff abound!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Long time no see, eh? Chapter 9 is finally here, and with it, the promised fluff! Be forewarned: this chapter consists of character building and exposition, and is entirely lacking in action. Still definitely one of my favorite chapters, however.  
> Be sure to read the Author’s Note at the bottom! There’s an extra special message for some of our more ~special~ fans.
> 
> Enjoy~

///

Standing in the dim glow of scattered flashlights while clasping onto Hemogoblin’s wrist, John could almost forget that the ground around him was littered with unconscious members of the Midnight Crew. The other hero’s hand was warm and alive despite the chill of the night, and the vibrant pulse he could feel beating beneath his fingertips was incredibly strong and pronounced, especially considering that he was wearing gloves. He was dimly aware that they’d been standing there clasping arms for a good ten seconds already, just grinning at each other, but the silence between them wasn’t awkward in the least. He was finding that focusing on the troll in front of him was nearly enough to make him ignore the pain that throbbed through his body with each intake of breath, in fact. In a moment of clarity brought on by the loud, pained groan of a downed human a good eight feet away, John wondered briefly for the umpteenth time if he was concussed, because neither of them really had the time to just be standing there staring at each other at the moment. Still, he might as well take advantage of the relative calm and address something that had been nagging at him ever since Hemogoblin had arrived and joined the fight.

“So, about your powers...” John started, trailing off with a slight incline of his right eyebrow. 

Hemogoblin’s brow quirked slightly before he quickly shook his head in the negative. The troll slowly threw his head over his right shoulder towards the direction of the flashing red and blue lights. The wailing sirens of multiple response vehicles were little more than a block away, now, their piercing screams echoing too loudly in the wharf for the heroes to disregard, warning them that staying any longer would entail lots of uncomfortable questions from the police. 

John let his fingers part from the spot where they had wound, leaving the space where dark fabric had been cut away to expose a hint of skin free of his touch. Hemogoblin let his hand fall away at the same time, his eyes once again instantly finding John’s own once he had turned back from observing the proximity of the city’s enforcers.

“No time to explain right now. We should go. I don’t think we want to be here when they arrive.” 

John nodded, knowing that the police wouldn’t be expecting them to stay after such a serious confrontation. There was an unspoken arrangement between those who enforced the law and the heroes who acted as best they could on its behalf: if just actions had been taken, they could cause heads to turn the other way. This would be the first instance of John stretching the boundaries of that agreement, however. There was no debating that he had broken laws tonight. It would be harder for the police to turn a blind eye if the young heroes were caught in the middle of a crime scene with such grievously wounded combatants. Force had been used during the life-threatening situation and, despite John’s almost naive hopefulness, some of the bodies scattered around the dockyard were not going to be getting back up again. 

He swallowed hard with that thought, clenching his fists at his sides. He had to push it back for now; he had more pressing issues and there would be time to reflect on his actions later.

With a final glance at Boxcars’s unmoving form, John kicked off into the air, doing his best to put thoughts of the mobster’s inevitable release from custody on bail out of his mind. The Midnight Crew was powerful, and John wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that they had half the city’s judges in their deep pockets. No, Boxcars probably wouldn’t get the blame for this in the end. The swelling of anger at that thought brought along with it an acute headache and a surprising stirring of the wind, so John did his best to clamp down and bury those feelings somewhere deep. Again, now wasn’t the time.

With his form hovering about a foot off the ground, John turned in mid-air to extend a hand to Hemogoblin, but he was surprised to find that the troll was no longer near. He was crouching over one of the many unconscious men strewn across Dockyard C—the one whose pained moan had snapped John back into the reality of the situation, in fact—holding a palm directly above the man’s mouth and nose. The troll nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied that the thug was still alive and breathing. As he hooked an arm underneath the man and began to lift him off the ground, he looked over his shoulder to answer the unasked question poised on John’s tongue.

“We need information and this one isn’t critically injured. And we both know Boxcars would never talk.” 

The simple explanation made John’s blood run cold as the implications of what Hemogoblin was saying set in. It was true that they needed actionable intelligence and that they needed it as soon as possible if they were going to cut the head off of this threat, but there were only so many ways of gaining information from a person, and John didn’t think a member of a group as notorious as the Midnight Crew would divulge vital intelligence by being asked “please.” With unease churning in his stomach, John once again clamped down ruthlessly on his feelings and buried them somewhere out of focus. This was a serious situation that called for a quick and professional approach. He’d have time to ponder the moral ambiguities of his actions once there weren’t cops bearing down on them.

Turning towards the chaos that remained of the pier, John’s eyes scanned the ground quickly, searching for a particular set of distinctive horns which framed the owner’s face. “Wait,” John whispered, his voice coming out much more softly than he’d intended as he swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

Hemogoblin immediately stopped where he was, the mobster leaning bonelessly against his shoulder, and shot Heir an inquisitive look. John was too busy still searching the ground to give him any heed, however. He was looking for a specific troll, the troll who had handed Boxcars the grenade early on in their fight. If John were running a crew, he wouldn’t trust just anyone to hold onto what had appeared to be the group’s only heavy ordnance. With any luck, that meant the troll might be higher on the totem pole than the rest of the thugs that had been a part of the ambush, maybe even Boxcars’s right hand. The higher you were on the totem pole, the more likely you were to be in possession of more sensitive information. John found the troll a few yards away from Hemogoblin’s position, curled onto his side in a fetal position, his horns standing out sharply against the concentrated light of an upturned flashlight. He didn’t look like he was moving at all.

 _Was he dead?_ Something in John’s stomach dropped at the thought of having caused yet another life to have been extinguished. Not wasting time, he flew over to the prone form and touched down on the ground, kneeling carefully over the body. Upon closer inspection, John was relieved to see that light puffs of air were leaving the troll’s open mouth. He was alive. “This one.”

John hoisted the troll up and over his good shoulder, biting down the protest of pain that throbbed through him with the added strain to his collarbone. The wind rushed to his aid without his request, wrapping around the troll to lift much of the other’s weight for him. It was reassuring that nothing seemed to have changed in his relationship with the wind since he’d finally allowed himself to tap into the vast reservoir of power constantly offered to him. He’d had some vague, ill-defined notion in the back of his head that things might be different after that, but the wind was acting as it always had, neither taking any more liberties with him than it usually did nor acting resentful over his reigning it in again.

John lifted at least a foot off the ground before pausing and pivoting to face Hemogoblin. With a slight twisting of his right index finger, a concentrated stream of air was pushing the bewildered troll off the ground, raising him to John’s eye level. Hemogoblin unceremoniously dropped the now unneeded human thug from off his shoulder as he slowly floated towards his partner, a look of surprise etched on his face. John savored that look for a moment, his lips twisting into a grin as the troll neared.

“Let’s get out of here,” he intoned, holding his free arm out for Hemogoblin to take. The troll did so without hesitation, his grip light and an excited twinkle in his eyes at the prospect of flying again. It was a sign of trust, that grip, signaling his belief that John would take care of him and wouldn’t let him down. He wouldn’t let him fall. For the duration of their flight, John decided he would try to focus on that sentiment, on the warm skin against his side and the look of barely contained excitement on his partner’s face, and not on the impending fate of the troll lightly weighing down his uninjured shoulder.

///

For the first few minutes of their flight, John felt like he could almost forget about the weighty presence of the thug he was carrying and why he was being brought along. His thoughts were focused solely on the deep sense of fulfillment he was experiencing at having officially gained a partner. After years of believing that the burden of being a hero for Seattle was his to shoulder alone, he now had someone by his side. It was true that they hadn’t really had the chance to hammer out what exactly being partners entailed, but if Hemogoblin felt similarly to how John was feeling, it was sure to be a rewarding partnership. John already felt like he could trust the troll implicitly, after all, especially after the the troll’s gallant rescue at the docks. The whole thing sounded like it came straight from the pages of one of his comic books, to be honest, and that had his head swimming with all of the possibilities of becoming a known crimefighting duo. Or maybe that was the concussion. Either way, these happy thoughts were enough to keep his darker thoughts at bay near the edge of his consciousness, just present enough not to let him forget, but out of mind enough not to bother him.

When after several more minutes of noiseless flight Hemogoblin pointed out a seemingly abandoned warehouse—void of vehicles, visible lights, or any other clues to tip off that it was occupied—John’s happiness abated and an uneasy feeling steadily started to grow in the pit of his stomach. It was at this warehouse that they would...extract information from their captive, using what methods John really didn’t want to contemplate. The weight of the troll on his shoulder seemed to grow heavier and heavier with every foot closer he came to the building, so that by the time he landed them by the large metal doorway, he felt as though he was going to be sick.

The door to the warehouse looked heavy and solid, like someone had decided to drop a thick slab of iron at the entrance and slap a handle and a few locks on it. It looked like the door swung outwards, too, which would complicate trying to open it using force. It wouldn’t be enough to stop John, obviously, but it wouldn’t exactly be a functioning door once he got through with it. Examining it for a moment, he briefly debated going around to the side and finding a loading dock, as it would probably be easier gaining entrance that way, but decided against it. They were already here, so might as well.

Handing the thug off to his new partner, John reared back and delivered a kick directly above the door’s main latch. The iron buckled and dented heavily with a screech that echoed through the night, but the frame remained firm. It took one more solid kick to the same area before the latch gave way and pieces of the lock fell to the ground with a clatter. John grasped one of the edges and gave the mangled door a sharp tug, and then it was clear and they were both stepping across the threshold into a pitch black room. 

John immediately suppressed a shiver. Inside, it was a good handful of degrees colder than the winter night at their backs, the heat having been long since turned off in the building and the concrete floors doing their absolute best to suck out all the remaining ambient heat in the air. With a mental cue, a warm draft wafted in from the still-open entrance and wrapped both him and Hemogoblin in its warm embrace. If the troll noticed, he didn’t say anything, though he did shift slightly to stare at John’s back. Wasting no further time, John fished out a small flashlight from one of his pouches and turned it on with a soft click. The beam of light cut through the darkness like a knife, illuminating their surroundings. Just as Hemogoblin had suspected, the warehouse seemed to be completely abandoned. The entire expanse of the room was empty save for row after of row of empty steel shelves and several bulky pieces of antiquated-looking equipment in one of the building’s corners, a thick layer of dust obvious wherever he looked. Several rooms were lined up against one wall, their windows dark and dirty. There were security cameras mounted high up in each corner, but they all appeared to be offline. There wasn’t much point in keeping surveillance running in a building holding nothing but dusty shelves, after all, but John decided to err on the side of caution. Quick shots of wind had the cameras spinning in their holders, swiveling to face the walls.

When he turned back to Hemogoblin, he saw that his partner had carried the other troll into one of the office rooms, having procured his own small flashlight from somewhere on his person. Upon following him, the first thing that he noted was that the thug was slumped in the middle of the room in a sturdy-looking chair, and that Hemogoblin was in the process of securing the criminal’s wrists to the arms of the chair with the same type of ziptie he himself used, the flashlight clenched firmly between his teeth.

“What exactly are you planning to do to him?” The words came out a lot softer than he’d intended for them to but the troll stilled nonetheless, hands halfway finished tightening a ziptie around the troll’s left ankle.

“I’m going to interrogate him until we get something we can use against the Midnight Crew,” Hemogoblin answered around the flashlight, his voice firm and his conviction clear as he shot John a look over his shoulder, eyes every bit as intense as they had been during the fight not a half hour ago. The sclera of those eyes were burning brightly in the darkness, striking and intimidating. “By any means necessary.”

“No!” John shouted, the immediate and loud response startling not only himself but Hemogoblin as well, the flashlight falling from the troll’s mouth and hitting the floor with a clatter. “You can’t just do that to someone! Heroes don’t do that! If you stoop to that level, you’ll be no better than these assholes! We have to take him back. We can’t do this!” Even as the words hurriedly left his mouth, John tried to reign in his emotions. He knew it didn’t fit Heir’s image to lose his cool like this and he’d thought he’d be able to work his way through this when the time inevitably came, but now that he was staring at the troll’s unconscious form tied to the chair, his hold on his feelings was slipping fast. The sickness from earlier was rearing its head in full force, and John felt like his head was spinning. It felt like all of the emotions he’d shoved down earlier were starting to bubble back all at once.

Hemogoblin released his hold on the other troll and stood quickly, drawing closer to John in a few brisk, long strides. John flinched violently when Hemogoblin’s hands reached up and firmly grabbed hold of his face, holding him steady. The look in the troll’s eyes was serious and John detected what he thought was a touch of worry.

“Heir, you need to calm down, right now. Breathe, Heir. Breathe.”

With a sharp intake of air, John realized he’d been holding his breath, for how long he didn’t know. His head stopped spinning shortly thereafter and he became dimly aware of his pulse racing underneath the troll’s fingertips. Realizing that he was slipping somewhere dangerous, John closed his eyes for a moment, doing his best to center himself and refocus. After several long, tense moments with Hemogoblin’s steadying hands on his face, he opened his eyes again. He’d come dangerously close to losing the tenuous grasp he had on his emotions, just then, and that meant something was wrong. He’d have to figure out what it was later, though, because this didn’t change how he felt about their prisoner.

John let his right hand slowly move up to grasp weakly at Hemogoblin’s left wrist, squeezing it gently to show that he was okay now.

“I understand how you’re feeling and if we had another option right now, I would rather take it. But this is where we are. Without doing something radical here, we’re back to where we started. Tomorrow would just be another day for the Midnight Crew to strike at you, at us, at this city, and at everyone we aim to protect. You and I, with what we do, with what’s at stake, we can’t fail now. This is our one chance to get a leg up on the Crew, and it’s not going to last long. We have at best a day or two to act before they realize this guy didn’t just scamper off into the night and they start changing their operations to prevent us from using any intel we might gain. With me so far?”

John nodded, the troll’s hands still firmly on his cheeks. He’d have found the gesture rather intimate if he weren’t currently trying to battle down the emotions still clawing against his skull like a caged animal trying to escape its confinement. Still, his partner’s words were making sense.

“Now whatever you’re thinking right now, you need to stop it. I’m not going to _torture_ the guy, for fuck’s sake. I’m talking about _interrogation_. There’s a difference. If everything goes as planned, I shouldn’t need to do much more than rough him up a little bit, and hopefully even that won’t have to go very far. I swear to you, I’m not going to do anything worse than what the police would do to this guy. Whatever you’ve seen in the movies, forget it; once I make this guy realize how screwed he already is, it shouldn’t be too much trouble to get him talking, no matter how loyal these guys are supposed to be to each other.”

John frowned, mulling the words over in his head, the sickness in his stomach fading slightly at the troll’s reassurances. This still wasn’t sitting right, but at least John didn’t feel like he was betraying his hero roots by allowing this to happen. “What do you mean how screwed he is?”

Hemogoblin grinned, the whites of his teeth shining in the pale light granted by John’s loosely-held flashlight. “Think about it. We nabbed him from a crime scene that was about to be swarming with police. Once the Crew realizes that this guy isn’t dead or in custody, they’re going to assume he escaped and is in hiding. When tomorrow comes and he hasn’t reported in, they’re going to suspect something else is up, mainly that he either ran away, or he was captured by us. Either of which options has him screwed, as there’s no way they’d let a deserter live. And if we were to, say, deliver him to the police later with a note thanking him for all of his cooperation, he’d be taken out within hours for betraying their secrets. Same as if we let him go and he reported back that we tried to interrogate him. So literally his only chance for survival right now depends on us letting him go. It’s pretty much the ultimate leverage. And I’ll bet you anything that if I spin it the right way with the proper...persuasion liberally applied here and there, he’ll see my logic.”

John’s brows were fully furrowed now as he thought the argument over. It wasn’t perfect by any means, and in fact it relied on the sole premise that this thug actually valued his own life enough to betray his organization...but it was far better than nothing, and far, far better than resorting to torture, like he’d initially assumed. Still...

“I understand your plan, but I don’t think I can be a part of this,” John whispered, voice still ringing out loudly in the otherwise quiet room.

Hemogoblin smiled, the look genuine and not at all patronizing as he lowered his hands from John’s face and then bent to pick up his flashlight. “Understood. Why don’t you wait outside?” The troll’s voice was full of so much gentleness that it actually gave John pause, so different from the cocky tone he normally displayed. It was a little jarring, and it made John realize that even though they were now partners, he’d really only been around the other hero for a handful of hours, now. Even if the teen already had his trust after ostensibly saving his life, there was still so much that they didn’t know about each other. He was rather looking forward to figuring him out.

As John turned around and headed for the door, the wind brought him Hemogoblin’s whispered words, words that he was pretty sure he was never supposed to hear. “I’ll try to make this quick, both for him and for you.”

A smile came to John’s face as he let the door to the office close behind him, which was quickly replaced by a grimace as he heard the sharp smack of flesh against flesh, as presumably Hemogoblin had just slapped the thug awake. John quickly wandered until he was sure no noises from the room could reach him, and then leaned against one of the steel shelves for support. Despite the omnipresent chill of the night seeping into his clothes, the freezing metal was a blessing, the cold instantly cutting through his jacket and numbing the skin below it.

John took off Casey and set her to the side before he slid down to the ground and sat in the darkness, alone except for the whispers of wind surrounding him, and silently contemplated Hemogoblin’s parting words.

///

It was almost an hour later before Hemogoblin stepped outside to join John, but it had felt like an eternity to the conflicted teen. He had occupied a few short minutes of his time alone by trying to patch himself up as best as he could, cleaning his face with the supplies he had tucked in his thigh pouch, making liberal use of an alcohol wipe and affixing gauze to the cut above his eye and across his cheek. He had given up the effort of doing more than that when attempting to clean the one remaining mirror in the bathroom he’d found proved futile. After that brief attempt to occupy himself, much of his time had been spent cold and alone, remembering and replaying and reassessing every choice from the night’s earlier events and trying not to let his mind slip back into the dark place it’d been in what seemed like only moments prior.

Observing his partner, John noted that the troll looked tense, his eyes narrowed slightly as they stared at something only he could see, obviously lost in deep thought. As he looked the troll over, John couldn’t help the churning doubt that once again made itself known as knots in his stomach. Had Hemogoblin kept to his word? John wasn’t sure how he’d feel if he hadn’t. Fighting crime was never an issue of clear-cut black and white morals, he’d always known that, but there were still some lines not meant to be crossed. So it was with a bit of unease that John found his eyes traveling up and down Hemogoblin’s costume, looking for signs of troll blood. They stayed like that for a few moments before John deliberately shuffled his leg against the ground. The resulting sound was soft, but it was enough to shake Hemogoblin from his thoughts.

The troll’s eye focused instantly on John’s leg before he seemed to deflate in front of John’s eyes, his entire posture losing its tenseness and reverting to something much more relaxed. “It’s over,” the troll informed, walking over and leaning against the same shelf John was currently standing against. Apart from the few specks of red lightly splattered over his gloves that John was pretty sure was from Boxcars, there was no drying blood anywhere else on the hero’s body that he could see. That was good. It couldn’t have been that hard to coax the information free when there were so few signs of the act, could it? Hemogoblin glanced over and must have sensed John’s worry, because he added a quick, “He’s a bit banged up, but he’ll live.”

John let out a relieved sigh. “What did you find out? Did he talk?”

“He did. Found out some interesting things, actually. The Midnight Crew operates in several segmented hierarchies, so low-levels like him aren’t privy to much sensitive information, but he wasn’t completely uninformed. I don’t know how you knew to nab him, but he was Boxcars’s dedicated right hand. As for the Crew, orders come from unaddressed letters, disposable cell phones, and anonymous couriers speaking on behalf of the upper ranks, who are themselves speaking on behalf of the boss. The boss is someone named Spades, by the way, though our guy has no idea where he’s located. Likes to travel around the country seeing to business himself, apparently.” John mentally filed that tidbit away for future reference. “Most of the men tonight weren’t aware that Boxcars would be heading the attack against you until he showed up, actually, but this one did. Looks like he had specific orders to bring heavy ordnance, lucky you. He gave me the lower ranking’s usual meeting spot—a bar on the west side of the city—and the location of a safe house on Seventh Avenue. The safe-house is where he received the grenade, so I would say it’s the first place we should hit up next.”

A sense of relief swept over John at that proclamation, his earlier fears put to rest. He’d been afraid that his hunch about this troll might’ve been wrong, and that meant he’d have had to suffer through Hemogoblin’s interrogation for nothing. If his words could be trusted, the heroes had two potential locations that connected back to the organization, and there was a strong chance that they might be able to pick up a clue or two as to how to find the higher-ups and end this once and for all. The Midnight Crew was still establishing itself in Seattle so they most likely didn’t have too many properties set up yet, hopefully. If they were able to take these down, that could potentially represent a large blow to the foothold the Crew had already established in their city.

John’s stomach knotted once again as his thoughts drifted towards their captive, still tied up in a dark room not twenty feet away. “What are we going to do with…” at this, John made a vague waving gesture with hands towards the office, “...him?”

Hemogoblin’s eyes followed John’s hands to stare at the room he’d just exited as the troll shifted his weight to his right leg so that his hips were jutting a bit. “We have two options, as far as I can tell. We either drop him off at the nearest police station and take a gamble that he won’t immediately blab that we’ve been holding him against his will for an hour or so, as I don’t think the cops could ignore that, or we do the thing I actually promised him.”

John frowned. “Alright, first things first. What’s to stop him from telling the police where he’s been?”

Hemogoblin sighed and brought a hand up to scratch the back of his head, his face morphing into an exasperated grimace that looked so familiar that for a split-second, John was actually seeing Karkat standing in Hemogoblin’s place. John blinked his eyes roughly and the specter of his crush disappeared. Not for the first time in the past hour, John was concerned that his head injury was more serious than he had originally thought.

“Honestly? The hope that he’s not suicidally moronic. It’s like I said earlier: if he lets people know we’ve interrogated him, his life is most likely forfeit to the Midnight Crew, even if he hadn’t told us anything. That’s not something they can just let slide. So if he wants to keep his head connected to his shoulders, he’ll keep silent. I don’t like it because it’s taking a lot of things on assumption, but it’s better than nothing.”

John nodded, mulling his partner’s words. He’d come to pretty much the same conclusion while he’d been waiting. “Okay. Then what’s the thing you actually promised him?”

“I told him you’d fly him out of the city limits and drop him off, and he’d be on his own after that.”

“You told him what?!” John recoiled, eyeing the other hero in shock. “We can’t do that! He’s part of the _Midnight Crew_. You saw what they were capable of tonight! They’re absolutely ruthless, they have zero compunction about causing massive collateral damage to the city, and they tried to _kill_ me! We can’t just let one of them go just like that!”

By the end of his tirade, John was dimly aware that his voice had risen to a shout and that he was breathing heavy. Hemogoblin’s luminescent eyes were wide in surprise, obviously not having expected the other teen to react in this way.

They stood like that for several tense moments, John trying to get his heavy breathing under control, his heart beating wildly. It felt like all of the anxiety and turbulent emotions that he’d bottled up over the course of the night were breaking through the dam he’d shoved them behind, this time much more effectively than they had earlier, and they were flooding through his system with all of the subtlety of a typhoon. All at once, the energy seemed to leave his body and he was left in a state of exhaustion, totally contradictory to the ferocity of his heartbeat, a sharp staccato being played out against his chest. John slumped to the ground tiredly, feeling drained and like he wanted to cry.

“What do we do now, Hemogoblin?” John’s voice threatened to crack and he cleared his throat. “Move on like you didn’t just interrogate someone and that I didn’t just throw Cas-” He could still hear the crunch of bone from when his hammer had connected with the thug’s chest. He hadn’t needed to see his handiwork to know what that had meant. Shattered ribs sent blasting through the man’s torso like shrapnel, eviscerating organs and causing massive internal hemorrhaging. The thug would’ve been lucky if he died quickly. For the first time in his life, he’d been directly responsible for the death of another. Someone who probably had loved ones. “Now that I’ve killed someone.”

Hemogoblin was silent for almost a full minute, his brows furrowed in thought, before he gracefully lowered himself next to his partner and took a seat. When he spoke, his words were soft and carefully spoken, completely lacking in the usual cocky tone.

“In the kind of situation we were in, there was a high chance of someone losing their life. On both sides. Every single one of those assholes knew that they were being pitted against someone with superpowers tonight, and they had to have known what that meant. They wouldn’t have been trying to take your life if they weren’t willing to put their own lives on the line to do it.”

“But that doesn’t make it right!” John cried, his left hand coming up to clench at his right arm almost painfully tight. “What gave me the right to take a life?”

Hemogoblin was silent again for a few long moments, contemplating his response. “You’re right; regardless of how prepared they were to lose a few of their own, what happened tonight wasn’t right. But then you didn’t really have a choice in the matter, did you? You saw one of those pricks about to gun me down and you acted. You saved my life, and I think that’s all the justification you need.”

John shook his head, doing his best to fight back the tears he knew wanted to form. Heroes didn’t cry on duty. “That wasn’t the only one. There were others. What about the troll I used as a body shield? I could’ve done something differently, could have tried to throw up a barrier and protect us both.”

“If you’re going to beat yourself up over every decision you made in the heat of a battle, Heir, then you’re never going to stop hating yourself. It’ll kill you.”

John blinked slowly, trying to make sense of his words. “But just because I-”

“Let me finish,” Hemogoblin interrupted, knocking his knee against John’s lightly. “When you’re in the thick of it like that, you don’t have time to think, don’t have time to plan. I’m not saying that you can do anything and your actions are automatically excused, but I was there too. There was too much going on, too much at stake to take your time and ensure everyone you took down was getting up afterwards. You did exactly what you had to do in the moment, and you can’t be blamed for not doing differently. If anything, I’d say the way you’re reacting now is telling enough of what kind of blame you should be feeling.”

John laughed, the noise erupting from his throat unbidden. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. “Pitiful, isn’t it? Big, strong hero of over half a decade, reduced to a wreck because he can’t keep his emotions in check.” John let his eyes stray over to the troll for the first time since he’d sat down next to him, still not able to let his eyes go high enough to seek out the glowing pair two feet away. “Have you...have you ever killed anyone before?” The words felt like lead, the weight of them pressing down on his tongue and making them drop heavily from his lips.

“No. I haven’t.” It wasn’t as reassuring as John would have hoped.

“Then how come you’re so calm about this?!” When the teen realized he’d unintentionally yelled again, he looked away, ashamed. After a few moments of silence, John absently lifted up his gloved hands and observed them carefully for the fourth time since Hemogoblin had taken their captive into the room. There were specks of multi-colored blood staining his shaking fingers, only some of it his own, turning the cloth a mottled brown.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a gloved hand reach over to enfold his, masking the dark stains and tentatively drawing the hand away from his disgusted gaze. Perplexed, John followed the path the hands took with his eyes and continued to stare as they settled against the concrete, resting between their thighs. A shocking warmth radiated through the thin, black material which covered Hemogoblin’s hand, spreading through John’s chilled skin and warming him instantly. He hadn’t realized how numb he’d let his skin become. Shivering tingles traveled all the way up his arm before running down his back, and then their fingers were interlocked.

John observed the two hands like they were alien appendages, admiring as if from a distance how strange it was that they wound together like they were made to do so, absolutely zero discomfort making itself known in the way their hands fit together. If he’d wanted to be cliche, he’d have described them as not unlike two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly to make a more complicated whole. It was altogether more intimate and real than any experience he could remember at the moment, like when he and Karkat would lie next to each other reading comics and their bodies would press together like they belonged. It was a similar feeling to that, except it was all concentrated on a single focal point. And just like that, the nausea and unease started to recede, slowly crawling back to wherever it had come from. John clung to the feeling of that hand intertwined with his like it was a lifeline.

As John watched, Hemogoblin’s thumb slowly started to trace small circles against the back of his hand in a gesture that seemed almost rehearsed in its intimacy. Almost instantly, John could feel himself being eased into a calmer state from the connection, finding the simple gesture enough to ground him in reality and keep him out of his own head. The only thing John could think to compare the feeling to was that sensation he got after waking up fully alert from deep slumber, when he was fully conscious but utterly powerless to move his body as it had yet to fully wake itself. Every part of him was numb except for his hand, and it felt wonderful.

Whereas moments before he was trying desperately to slow his heartbeat, now he could feel the organ beating sluggishly in his chest, the sound ringing in his ears. Or maybe that was Hemogoblin’s pulse he was feeling? Regardless, it felt _right_ to let this troll hold onto his hand like this and to hold him back. Something about gripping onto the long fingers felt familiar, so he held on tightly, letting it banish away his darker feelings until his thoughts were fixed solely on keeping his hand around Hemogoblin’s.

After perhaps an entire minute of sitting in silence, John let his eyes trail upwards, past the long gloves and exposed grey skin of his partner’s upper arm, up his long neck and the curve of a sharp jawline, and came to a pause at the troll’s lips. He’d never noticed just how nice those lips looked before. The ashy skin was a darker tone of slate grey, warmer notes only just hinting at his unique blood colour. They were so full, the lower relaxed until it almost pouted and the upper arching into an appealing bowed curve. When Hemogoblin’s tongue flickered out to wet the lower half of skin, John gulped softly.

As he continued to take in those inviting lips, paying no mind to whether the owner of them was aware of his gaze, he wondered absently if they would be as warm as the troll’s hand. Up close enough to see each curve, each dip of skin, John found that they were strikingly similar to Karkat’s, which probably went a long way in explaining why he was finding those features so appealing. Unlike his well-contemplated feelings for Karkat, John didn’t know exactly what it was that he felt about the troll sitting next to him or how Hemogoblin fit into the scheme of things in a romantic way. He wasn’t sure how any of this meshed with what he felt for Karkat, if he was just drawing similarities because he couldn’t have the one person he wanted so badly, or if this was something entirely new altogether. 

But what John did know was that right then he wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss him. That desire only grew stronger as his eyes darted up and he saw that the troll’s own eyes were distant and cloudy, his expression troubled even as he continued to absently stroke the back of John’s hand. He looked sad, almost, in a way that made John want to console him. There was an urge growing in him to pull down his mask and move closer, press into the warm body next to him until there was no space left, and kiss him; it was a desire to be reckless and spontaneous, to scratch the itch that kept his gaze locked on those lips. He dully recognized it as the same urge he’d had the other day when he and Karkat were laying side by side and the other boy’s head had been mere inches from his own. The distance was a bit larger in this case, but the desire was no less great. He could throw caution to the wind and kiss that sad look away, give in to something he hadn’t realized he had wanted this badly, and it would be easy. It would just be a matter of crossing the distance between them.

Before he could stop himself, his body had begun to lean forward, his free hand inching towards the edge of his mask…

“For the longest time, I had no idea that I was any different from other trolls,” Hemogoblin began, startling John out of his haze with the seemingly random change of topic. He pulled himself away just before Hemogoblin turned to look at him fully. The troll made no hint that he had caught the strange movement towards him, filling John with a sense of relief mixed with a bitter pang of regret. He tried not to think about how close he had just been to kissing his partner, or how a large part of him still wanted to try as Hemogoblin continued.

“In the café, I mentioned that I was born with a mutation. That wasn’t obvious to me at first, though. I thought it was normal to be able to feel the blood rushing through your veins, to always hear your heartbeat in your ears, to always have the rhythm of your pulse playing in the background and to be able to control it by will. I thought everyone was just as in tune with their bodies as I was. How was I supposed to know any different? It’s not like I could tell how other people felt and compare myself to them, and there sure as fuck wasn’t a manual on this shit.” Hemogoblin paused, the sudden angry glare on his face fading as he dropped his gaze lower to stare at their entwined fingers contemplatively. He never once paused in rubbing slow circles on the back of John’s hand, however, a gesture for which John was immensely grateful.

“I first found out I wasn’t the same as other trolls in kindergarten, when we were having our very first biology lesson and our teacher told us about trolls having different colored blood. There was a chart with all the colors of the rainbow tacked up on the wall, except I couldn’t find my own. When I asked if trolls could have bright red blood, like a human, I was told no. That day I found out there was something wrong with me.” Hemogoblin again looked away at this, his eyes finding something to stare at on the opposite side of the warehouse. “It wasn’t a week later that I fell on the playground and scraped my knee. I didn’t want anyone to see my wrong-colored blood, so I started to cry and I wished with all my might that I wasn’t bleeding. Then I wasn’t. There was no more blood, no more cut. It was like I’d never hurt myself.”

John idly wondered if Hemogoblin had ever shared this story with anyone else before. He didn’t seem to be having too much trouble relating the story to him, but his eyes were constantly looking off into the distance, remembering things that seemed to still be emotionally raw. That meant he was reliving painful memories just to bring John down from his emotional outburst. With that thought, the urge to kiss him returned stronger than ever, but John fought it down.

His next thought went to the heroes from his comic books, many possessing regenerative powers so strong that they could reattach severed limbs or survive through wounds that would otherwise be fatal. There were some whose bodies could keep away the effects of aging and live for centuries. Those had all been fictional creations, thought up by creative minds seeking out an angle for their next main character that was bigger and better than the real heroes around them. John had never heard of an actual hero who could manipulate their blood in the way Hemogoblin was describing. The troll didn’t seem about to talk again on his own without prompting, so John asked the first thing that popped into his head.

“You healed a scratch on your cheek a little while ago, too. So does that mean you’re kinda immortal?” 

Hemogoblin let out a short bark of laughter and shook his head, a small, genuine smile once again reappearing on his face. John really, really preferred that smile to the troll’s normal cocky grin. Like, a whole lot. “No. At least I’m pretty sure not. I'd be fucked if I lost a limb, I think. I’d probably be able to stop the bleeding fairly easily, but the shock would probably get me, and even if not then I’d have lost that limb forever, probably. I’ve never really relished the idea of cutting off a finger or toe just to test the theory out, in any case. But for things like cuts and infections, I can accelerate the healing process. Small scrapes I can heal right away. My body almost does it instinctively.”

“What about when you form blades and stuff? That was seriously awesome, by the way, but doesn’t that weaken you having that much blood outside of your body?”

Hemogoblin shrugged, bringing his free hand up and examining the flawless skin of his wrist. “Not really. My body seems capable of either instantly replenishing blood loss or sustaining itself on greatly diminished amounts. I haven’t really figured out which, yet.”

“Whoa. If it can replenish itself, does that mean you could, like, fill a swimming pool with your blood?” As soon as the words left his mouth, John wished he could somehow reel them back in. He tried desperately not to bring his free hand up to smack himself in the face.

Hemogoblin turned fully and stared at John’s face with an amused grin, and he instantly felt his cheeks heating up by what felt like a million degrees.

“Haven’t exactly been keen to try bleeding out just for the hell of it, yet, but I’ll let you know if I ever decide to try.”

John really did bring his hand up and attempt to facepalm at this, only to find his hand blocked by his goggles. _Smooth_. Hemogoblin chose not to comment, though his smile grew a little more.

Thinking quickly, John sought for something to try and salvage the situation. “You mentioned your blood helps with infections. Is that why you don’t hesitate to take your blood back into your body after cutting someone? Even if you don’t use it on a person, it’s still getting exposed to a massive amount of airborne bacteria. I’d think it’d be rendered useless as soon as it left your body.”

Hemogoblin’s grin faded back to something more benign, though he was still smiling as he again lifted his free hand and examined his wrist. “I don’t really understand the biological process behind it, but it doesn’t really seem to matter what happens to the blood itself. Whether it gets contaminated or dries out, my body seems to be able to convert it to something usable and handles it with no ill side effects. I haven’t been sick since I was eleven years old, right before puberty hit.”

The troll’s eyes took on that distant look again, his expression morphing into one of sadness. John felt a dull ache in the pit of his stomach at seeing that smile fade from the troll’s lips. “Puberty...Puberty was rough. I went to bed feeling relatively normal, pretty confident that I could keep others from knowing about my strange red blood if I just never got hurt, and then the next morning I woke up like this.” Hemogoblin pointed at his red irises and glowing sclera with the thumb of his free hand, a scowl etching itself on his face. “ _You_ try to go to school with eyes like these and not get called a _freak_ ,” he spat.

“I think your eyes are beautiful,” John blurted out before he could stop himself. Despite it being the truth, it felt like he had said it too soon and at the wrong time. There really wasn’t another way that statement could be taken, but John’s mouth decided to smooth-talk itself out of it with zero help from his brain. “Err, uh, I mean.” Hemogoblin turned his head, again giving John a flash of that genuine smile that made his heart pound. Maybe it hadn’t been the wrong thing to say.

After the troll gave John’s hand a slow, deliberate squeeze, he continued. “I had to move, once, when I was twelve, because I wasn’t used to my contacts and lost one in the middle of class. My lusus and I packed up and left the very next day. It was mainly my own cowardice that made it so bad, though. I was terrified of my secret being discovered and being labeled an _aberration_ , to the point that I withdrew from everyone around me and cut ties with a lot of my friends. Kind of ironic that I cut myself off to prevent myself from being ostracized. Or maybe pathetic is a better term.”

“You’re not pathetic. You were making the best of a bad situation.” Even as he said it, John could feel himself relating almost eerily well with Hemogoblin’s circumstances. Having to close himself off to others was the story of his existence. That had been his entire life, right up until Karkat had frowned and scowled and cursed his way into his heart. Still, their situations were a bit different; while he hadn’t made ties in order to protect those around him, Hemogoblin had tried to avoid others in order to protect himself. Those were both sad stories, yes, but John didn’t think they were pathetic.

“Thanks,” Hemogoblin murmured, leaning gently into John’s arm and bumping their shoulders together lightly. He was smiling again, this time to himself. “It's only recently that I've been able to shake off my anxiety and make friends. I'm glad I did, because I even have a moirail now, or someone who I think of as a moirail, at least.” The troll’s eyes darted to John’s own, capturing them in their glow. “And I have you to thank for that, Heir.”

John frowned, trying to think of anything he could have done to affect Hemogoblin. They’d only known each other for a few weeks and had met less than half a dozen times, so he was understandably confused. “Me? What did I do?” 

“Call it leading by example. Seeing you in action kind of let me know that it was okay to be different as long as you were using your differences in a way that could help people. You made it easier for me to come out of the shadows and be someone stronger than I thought I could be.” 

During their brief conversation at the café, Hemogoblin had mentioned Heir being his inspiration in becoming a hero, but John hadn’t realized that the troll had made such a significant change in his life because of something that he had done. It was kind of a stunning revelation, to be honest. He’d heard Karkat mention a great many times how awesome Heir was and how he’d saved him, but it was different hearing that your actions had an impact on someone to such a large degree. It was a validation that all of his efforts hadn’t been in vain.

“I'm glad that you did.” John wasn’t sure what specific event triggered the change, but he was glad that he had done it. Whatever it was, it had pushed Hemogoblin to become who he was. Maybe one day he would find out just what he had done to cause the troll to pursue a life of heroism.

“Me too.” 

They sat in a comfortable silence for several minutes, each content to sit and bask in the other’s company. The fact that they were still holding hands was not lost on John. Oddly enough, he could still feel his own heartbeat even though he was much more relaxed now. It was tapping a slow, serene melody in his chest, and it was with something of a start that he realized that its tempo was matching up perfectly with the pulse he was feeling through the thin glove on Hemogoblin’s hand. Whether this was a result of the troll’s powers or if it was his own biology naturally syncing up through coincidence he didn’t know, but it was kind of fascinating knowing that their hearts were beating in tune together. That was the sort of sappy thing Karkat would’ve cooed over in one of his ridiculous romance novels.

Several moments after John made this discovery, Hemogoblin let out a soft sigh, lifting his free arm and catching John’s attention. He pressed the very tip of his ring finger against his open palm until a bead of red pooled under his nail. John was almost alarmed, but as Hemogoblin lifted his finger away, the liquid followed upwards, forming a long, thin thread. It detached from the nail and spun into a winding coil that continued to corkscrew upwards on its own, completely defying gravity, to John’s enraptured shock. As the blood twisted and formed into various shapes, Hemogoblin explained.

“You asked what I could do, earlier. My powers allow me to manipulate my blood in its entirety. I can change its form, turn it into a weapon, or wear it as armor.” He punctuated this by shifting the strand of blood into a thin spike, more blood immediately flowing from his palm to join the spike, the shape lengthening and flattening until he was holding a long, deadly-looking crimson blade.

Were John not wearing his mask, his mouth would be hanging wide open. That was _so freaking cool!_ “How do you get it to solidify like that? And when you said you could make armor…?”

The troll smirked, the blade instantly reverting to a liquid and reforming into a sickle like earlier, except this time he was holding it by a handle, the weapon fully detached from his body. “The answer to your second question is the same as the first. It’s a lot more complicated than how I’m explaining it, but I’m basically manipulating the iron levels to form something simultaneously rigid and moldable. That allows for some extremely sharp blades when you consider I’m sharpening it on a molecular level.”

John nodded, staring at the tip of the sickle somewhat warily. If he could indeed make it as sharp as he claimed, that blade would tear through the metal of his armguards like they weren’t even there.

“It’s the same deal with the armor. My entire body is constantly flowing with my blood, blood that can become as hard as iron. I’ve never tried it, but I’m pretty sure I could shrug off bullets if I needed to. Granted, it’d probably hurt like a motherfucker and I’d be a mess afterwards, but still.”

John stared at the troll sitting next to him for several long moments before he raised their connected hands and gave the troll’s an experimental squeeze, almost surprised to find that his skin was still soft and felt like any other person’s. Hemogoblin let out a throaty laugh and squeezed John’s hand back, lowering them back down. “It only goes rigid if something breaks the skin, goober.” 

“Speaking of, why the spikes? Why not just force the blood directly out of your skin? Seems like it’d be a lot faster than cutting yourself every time.”

“The opposite is true, actually. If I want the blood to push through the skin, I have to sharpen it in the vein first. That means when it comes out of the skin, it already has a shape. So then once it’s out, I’d have to reconstitute it into a liquid and then reform that into the shape I want. Trying to get all of that in one fluid motion is like trying to rub your stomach and pat your head at the same time; it’s doable, but it takes a lot of concentration, and that’s not something you really have a lot of to spare in the middle of a fight. So it’s much easier to just use something else to cut myself with,” he said, gesturing with his hand towards the spikes on his sides. “Fun fact: those are made of blood, too.”

John eyed them with renewed interest, taking in their incredibly sharp-looking appearance. “Doesn’t that take up a lot of concentration maintaining them like that?”

“Not at all. I just tell them to retain that shape and they do. I forget I have them on, most of the time.”

“Well, that’s useful. I have to constantly keep the wind in focus if I want to do anything fine like that, but maybe that’s just the nature of the wind.”

Hemogoblin made a noise of agreement in the back of his throat before he continued on, the crimson sickle in his hand melting into a liquid before John's eyes and slithering back to his palm, disappearing in seconds. He did his best to look for any change in the troll's skin but saw only unblemished, flawless skin, like usual. “As an extension of my powers, every function of my body that has to do with blood is one I can manipulate, like adjusting my body temperature or controlling the levels of oxygenation in the blood so I can rejuvenate my muscles and bolster my stamina, for example. It lets me exercise all day and night if I want to with little to no sleep. I’ve only been training for a little under a year, actually, but my powers have allowed me to develop my strength and my body in a really short period of time.”

John nodded, stealing a glance at the other hero’s body but finding himself unable to keep his eyes from roaming over the well-toned chest and stomach. "That definitely explains a few things."

“What?”

“Er, nothing. I’m...really happy you could trust me with all of this, Hemogoblin.” John didn’t think that was enough to convey just how much it really did mean to him. There was so much more he knew about Hemogoblin now, so much that the other hero had felt he could share with him.

“I’d trust you with a lot more.” John opened his mouth to ask the other what he meant but the intent to inquire was promptly cut off with the nervous sound of a strained laugh. “Nevermind. Just, look.” Hemogoblin moved so that he was kneeling directly in front of John, resting his free hand against John’s knee. If not for the other’s serious expression, John might have drawn closer and attempted that kiss one more time. As it was, his heartbeat was definitely speeding back up with the troll right in front of him like this.

“I want you to know more about me and why I am what I am so you can come to trust me like I trust you. You’ve changed my life, Heir, and you’ve helped me realize who I can be. To answer your very first question, I can do what I do, be ruthless if it’s necessary, because blood doesn’t mean the same thing to me as it does to you. My hands have always felt like they were dipped in it. But this,” Hemogoblin lifted their hands, still wrapped up in one another, and rotated his wrist so that John was staring at his own, the twinge of pain that elicited from his shoulder going unnoticed, “this isn’t the hand of a murderer. It’s the hand of a protector. Spilling blood does not change what it is. You were acting to protect, not because you wanted to kill.”

John wanted to protest inside, still conflicted over what he had done despite the words aiming to justify his use of force, but he couldn't deny feeling immensely better from the troll's reassurances. Revisiting the dark thoughts of the night seemed almost impossible with the warm hand in his own and the strong, steady pulse of it beating underneath his fingers.

///

The two heroes stayed like that for another few minutes, each enjoying the peace, before Hemogoblin suggested that John should turn in for the night. John was distantly aware that he must have been more of a mess than he’d thought if the troll was telling him to go home already, but it was with a slight shock that he pulled out his disposable phone and saw how much time had passed since they’d first entered the warehouse. It had felt like forever while waiting for Hemogoblin’s interrogation to be over, but John hadn’t actually thought it had taken too long. As it stood, it wasn’t actually too long before the time he’d normally go home anyway.

Regardless, John would be lying to himself if he’d said that he wasn’t looking forward to a hot shower and his bed. With the throbbing pain in his collarbone, the scorch marks and tears on his costume and body, as well as the numerous splotches of blood staining his clothes, he couldn’t deny that he probably looked and definitely felt like hell. It was no surprise, then, that the eyes Hemogoblin was showing him as he suggested John turn in were full of concern.

They walked hand in hand across the warehouse and stopped in front of the dilapidated office, empty now except for a troll ziptied to a chair, neither seeming to want to be the first to tear their hand away from the other. John didn’t want to let go of the spell of comfort that Hemogoblin held in his slender fingers anymore than the other seemed willing to release him.

“I’ll make sure he gets delivered to the police,” Hemogoblin promised quietly, nodding his head back to the room where he had interrogated the thug. John cocked his head in question, curious as to how he was going to get around the city carrying the unconscious troll the three or four miles to the nearest station. Sensing his question, Hemogoblin deftly opened up the pouch on his left thigh and pulled out a cellphone of similar make and model to John’s own disposable.

Ah. That made sense. He hadn’t even thought about that option, but an anonymous tip off that there was a bound criminal in the warehouse would be much simpler than going through the trouble of hand-delivering the thug themselves.

“We’ll just have to hope he’s not stupid enough to tell them what happened and just let them assume we tied him up for safekeeping, otherwise...we’ll cross that bridge if we have to,” the troll murmured, slipping the phone back into his pouch and turning to give John a small, genuine smile.

His thumb brushed against the back of John’s hand once more before his fingers loosened and finally slipped away. The loss of contact was a little more jarring than John had thought it would be, the feelings of rightness and comfort ebbing away slowly every moment that his now empty hand was exposed to the night air. Sensing his discomfort, the wind picked up and caressed his cheek with a warm tendril, making John smile. He had to remind himself that he was never truly alone. Still...John had to resist the urge to invite Hemogoblin home with him, so strong was his desire to stay in his presence. There would be time for that later, however. He needed to rest and he wasn’t about to compromise his identity simply because he wanted to hold his partner’s hand longer.

“We should meet up tomorrow night, preferably sometime early. We can go after the safehouse first as that’s where they’ll probably have the most sensitive information,” John suggested, knowing that they would need to plan their attack before they actually went at it. He noted with a soft frown that without relying on the use of their disposable cellphones, they lacked a method of ready communication, which could be a problem in the future. At least for now they’d have to rely on setting up meetings beforehand.

Hemogoblin nodded, looking thoughtful as he brought his now-free right hand up to rub at his chin. “The rooftop of the Roosevelt should be perfect. Eight o’clock okay?” 

“Eight o’clock is perfect,” he responded, thinking back to the forecast for tomorrow. Sunset was estimated to be a little before six, which would leave him plenty of time to prepare.

“It’s a date, then.”

John had almost expected the troll’s last words to drop back down to his usual flirtatious tone, but they came out natural, lighter, and audibly affectionate. He liked it and this change between them, more than he probably should have. 

“Now go. Rest well, Heir.” Hemogoblin placed a hand gently to John’s chest and shoved back ever so slightly, John complying with the gesture and lifting off into the air. He prolonged his departure a moment longer to offer up a smile, the outlines of his lips stretching underneath his mask. It was promptly returned in full.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” John didn’t linger any longer before taking off, despite wanting to. He grabbed Casey quickly and reattached her to his back in a smooth motion, the action causing a slight twinge in his collarbone. As he flew out the building and started to put some distance between them, he couldn’t resist taking one last glance over his shoulder to see if Hemogoblin was still watching him. Sure enough, his partner was propped casually against the doorframe of the warehouse, arms crossed over his chest and head resting on a shoulder, seemingly content to stay there until Heir disappeared into the night sky. Noticing he had been seen, the troll waved one hand slightly. 

John mimicked the gesture before arching his body and shooting high enough to skirt the scattered clouds, the landscape below him fading to a familiar sea of twinkling lights. Between large patches of cloud were snapshots of the sky, the glittering gems of stars against the inky blackness making it so that no matter where he looked, John was rewarded with sparkles of light. It was a good night for flying.

He was tired, hurting, and emotionally drained from what was without doubt the most challenging night of his life as a hero, but, despite all of this, John decided that for now he would bask in the pleasant buzz he felt from the progress he and Hemogoblin seemed to have made. The troll had demonstrated his fighting prowess and fearlessness yet again, making John sure that the decision to become his partner hadn’t been the wrong one. Hemogoblin had also taken a huge risk tonight with his feelings and revealed a lot of personal background about himself, and John knew how hard that must have been. He hadn’t ever told Karkat of his difficulties with accepting the hero lifestyle, of course, but he and his best friend had had long, intimate talks before about growing up with personal hardships. It had been difficult for John to talk about his loneliness, and he was positive the same had been true just now for Hemogoblin. After that display, John felt like it was safe to say that they trusted each other, something which would go a long way towards proving them capable of working together as a team. He had no doubt in his mind that they would work, at this point.

As John did a corkscrew through the air, the wind wrapping him up in its embrace with a strong updraft of pleasantly warm air, he brought his left hand up to eye level, examining it for the umpteenth time that night. He could still feel the troll’s hand in his own when he closed his eyes, could still vividly recall the shivers that were sent down his back when Hemogoblin had languidly started stroking the back of his hand. If anything else was learned tonight beyond the fact that he now had a partner whom he felt like he could trust, it was the truth about his feelings.

There was no denying it at this point. He had feelings for Hemogoblin.

It made sense, really, and the only thing he was left wondering was why he hadn’t recognized it sooner. It’s true that he’d only known the troll for a very short time, but he’d been enraptured with him from the very first moment they locked eyes those few weeks ago. The physical attraction was almost a given with how well the hero filled out that incredibly tight costume, but it was the gentle affection underneath his usual playful demeanor that had shone through tonight and left a lasting mark on him. Finding out more about Hemogoblin and what he had gone through throughout his life had just been icing on the cake; he’d known what he wanted the moment Hemogoblin had cut through John’s panicked thoughts and erratic heartbeat and had calmed him down with nothing more than his touch. There had only ever been a single other person who could affect him like that.

Thoughts of Karkat made him slow down a bit, his flight leveling off. He still felt the exact same for Karkat, of that he was sure. Except now another had entered into the scene. He didn’t really know how he was going to work all of these new feelings out when he already cared for someone as much as he did for Karkat, but he’d think about that when he didn’t feel like shit anymore.

He continued on his flight path for a good five minutes before he stopped in mid-air, suspended well above his neighborhood. He descended quickly but cautiously, ever mindful to do his routine check of the backyards and windows which surrounded his house. Thanks to the tall trees that his Dad had sought out when purchasing their home, there was only one house with a clear view of his room from its yard, and the middle-aged woman who lived there kept a similar schedule to his dad, the lights never on when John returned home from his patrols. Still, he’d rather be safe than sorry.

The wind flushed out around him, gentle waves breezing through the darkness and weaving around any unseen observer. As he'd hoped, the search turned up nothing unusual except for a sleeping dog a few houses down and a couple of cats stalking about.

In the clear, John plummeted quickly down to his house and hovered just outside his window before sneaking into his room. He drew the curtains behind him before reaching out to flick on his bedside lamp. The light from the lamp revealed his cellphone sitting on the bedside table, the missed call light blinking softly. Curious, John unlocked it and checked his missed calls. It looked like Karkat had tried to reach him just a few minutes after he’d left for his patrol earlier, but hadn’t bothered to leave a voicemail. John was tempted to text him then and there, absolutely positive that talking to the troll would make him feel about a thousand percent better, but he thought against it and set the phone down. The sun wasn’t even up at this point and chances were extremely slim that Karkat would still be up. Not for the first time, John lamented the fact that he couldn’t bring the phone with him on patrol, but his dad had said something about GPS chips and cell tower triangulation and some other things John really didn’t get, but that had been that and John was forced to use a large number of disposable phones that could and often were ditched at a moment’s notice. 

Stripping down comfortably proved to be a challenge with his shoulder and collarbone causing him considerable pain and discomfort with each motion, but eventually he managed to free himself out of the clothes, nudging them into a pile with his foot. Casey went in her usual hiding place. The sight of the stained and torn material on the floor made him wonder just how he was going to repair it enough for proper use when he was supposed to take down a Midnight Crew safehouse in about sixteen hours. The majority of the day would be spent scrubbing and sewing, probably. He hoped his dad had a spare costume in the works, because it seemed as though this one was on its last legs.

Deciding to leave the costume in its sorry condition for the time being, John slid on a pair of boxers before he picked up the pile and headed for the bathroom. Intending to just deposit the costume in the tub before hopping in the shower to wash the dried blood off of his body, John got a few paces out of his door before realizing something was strange.

There was a light coming from downstairs and, with a quick prompting of the air around him to carry any vibrations to his ears, he realized that there were voices talking. Plural. The words were muffled and especially dulled in his left ear, but the tones carried clear. It sounded like an argument between a man and a woman. At first, John suspected his dad might have fallen asleep while watching a movie and had turned up the volume on the TV to keep himself awake while he waited up for his son, but as he stood in the hallway trying to make out words to see if he might recognize the show, he realized one of the voices belonged to his dad.

As quietly as he could, John rushed to the bathroom and unloaded his costume in the bathtub. He wanted to see what was going on downstairs as soon as possible in the event that his dad needed his help, this obviously taking priority over his own condition. As he made his way to the door his reflection in the bathroom mirror stopped him. He turned to glance at himself fully for the first time since he’d gotten back and flinched. Smudges of dark red were streaked over his skin from where he missed with his attempts to clean himself earlier, dry trails of blood from his ears and the scrapes on his cheek flaking off. His complexion where his costume hadn’t covered was darkened by dust in spots, and his torso was scattered with blossoming bruises flushed an angry, vivid red. A lump just above his shoulder was swollen and inflamed, the connecting bone noticeably sitting slightly off.

John wet a washcloth, peeled off his poor attempt at bandaging the biggest cut, and scrubbed it over his face. Investigating what was going on in the house needed to wait a minute. He couldn’t go interrupt whatever was happening looking as though he had just been dragged through a battlefield. If his dad really was talking to someone, John couldn’t give reason to raise questions over his appearance. He had to look like a teenage boy having woken up in the middle of the night, not someone who had just come fresh out of a fight.

A cotton swab was carefully twisted into his left ear, its white head stained a rusty red when he pulled it out, causing the teen to flinch. He carefully continued to clean out the canal until the last swab came out clean. He proceeded to place clean bandages on his face where the scrapes were deepest and decided that was the best he could do. At least the exhaustion in his eyes and his ever windswept hair could be easily attributed to him just having woken up.

John returned to his room just long enough to throw on a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He was careful to keep his footsteps light when he headed down the stairs, though he felt like he was being overly cautious. If his dad and whoever he was in an argument with hadn’t heard him washing up before then they were unlikely to hear him now. As John walked down the hallway sticking close to the far wall, he found that the the voices were coming from the living room, still engaged in a heated debate. He made his way down the stairs, stopping just above where he knew he still couldn’t be seen. 

“—have no right. My answer isn’t going to change. I suggest you leave.” That voice definitely belonged to his dad, although his tone was rougher and harsher than anything John was used to hearing. There was anger in his voice, with something else barely contained at the edges. Stern directions and fatherly disapproval were as close to this as he had ever gotten, but this was something new, a side of his dad he had never heard. It was kind of frightening.

“You knew that this was part of the job when you took it. If anything, tonight’s events prove that the project has reached fruition. You can’t deny it any longer.” It was obvious that this was something work-related if he wasn’t mistaken about the context of what he’d just heard. John racked his memories trying to come up with a match for the woman’s voice, but she was utterly unrecognizable. She spoke in level, authoritative snips, biting out the words in obvious distaste for the subject and whom she was addressing. From her tone alone, John could only assume that she held herself in a higher position than his father. Hesitating for only a moment more, John decided now would be a good time to interrupt, before things had a chance to escalate further. He took the few steps forward necessary to reach the bottom of the stairs, not knowing what to expect.

The first thing that stood out was that, despite the hour, they both appeared to be well put together in typical business suits, his dad in the same grey one he had put on much earlier that day, and the woman in a simple charcoal number. He wondered just how long this conversation had been going on before reaching this point, but he was glad he'd gotten home when he had. The two were standing, the aggression evident in their body language, their anger apparently having caused them to rise from their seats.

He didn’t recognize the woman that his dad was glaring daggers at, though that wasn’t unexpected. In all the years his dad had been working for the same company, the man had never once brought a colleague home before. Considering it now, John realized he couldn’t recall a single instance of his dad having brought anyone home with him, colleague or otherwise, and rarely did the man stay out late. He wasn’t even sure about the details of his dad’s job, let alone the status of his social life, so maybe he was misreading what was going on here? 

“What’s going on?” John tentatively spoke up, mindful to keep his voice in soft as though he had just woken. The attention of the room shifted onto him immediately. His father’s eyes flashed with alarm before settling into a mix of concern and barely contained anger, while the woman gauged him with an analytical look that was as curious as it was intense. If he had ever seen her before, he had forgotten when and where. As much of a businesswoman as his dad was a businessman, she sported a neat blonde bob, tastefully plain makeup, and was functionally under-accessorized. “Who’s this?” 

“She’s just a colleague from work who was about to leave, John. Sorry to have woken you.” While John seriously doubted that she had been ready to leave before he walked in, the woman nodded stiffly, her eyes still locked on John until she started speaking.

“You know that this isn’t over. You don’t get to make up rules after you signed a contract, especially not with me. There will be consequences for your actions.” The woman started towards John, glancing briefly at him as she passed by on her way to the front door.

He found the way that she looked at him to be deeply unsettling. It wasn’t with anger or any spite lingering from her argument, but there was something in her unique, rose-colored eyes that he hadn’t expected: recognition.

As she paused at the door, a grin worked its way onto her face, a smirk that instantly reminded John of some sort of predator. “You’ve raised a handsome boy, Charles.”

John felt his cheeks heat up despite himself.

She was gone with a click of the door, her subtle floral perfume still hanging in the air.

John stood still for a moment, trying again to place her in his memories but with no success. As he walked further into the living room, his dad slipped down onto his chair, sighing while loosening his tie. “Dad, what was that about?” It was the first in about a thousand questions he wanted to ask.

“Just a colleague that doesn’t like to take no for an answer. Nothing important.” His dad dismissed the inquiry away casually, but John didn’t think that was all there was to it. What kind of colleague was at your house during the deep hours of the night? Sunrise was still at least an hour or so away. What was so important that it couldn’t wait until Monday, or at least until the morning? Why was this the first time he’d ever seen someone his dad worked with? He had so many questions to ask, but it didn’t seem like his dad was in a very forthcoming mood.

When the man really looked at him for the first time, he was up in an instant, crossing the distance between them in a single moment to hastily examine the scuffed cheek and push up John’s sleeves to prod at the few visible red circles on his arms. His worry was palpable, a deep frown on his face as his large, experienced hands started carefully examining his son for unseen injury.

“What happened?” Rather than explain everything before he was examined, John lifted his shirt, hoping his dad would tell him that the injuries really weren’t as bad as he suspected they were. His father took in each mark, eyes widening as he undoubtedly recognized the shapes and pieced together what had happened through the wounds alone. John and his dad both knew what the aftermath of being shot in a bulletproof vest looked like, and the sheer number of marks on his torso where a round had imparted its kinetic force was alarming in itself. What made it even more shocking was that the marks were on _his_ body. They both understood the significance of John being hurt to this extent; he’d hardly ever had much more than a few scratches on him after a typical night, so to have sustained this much damage was unsettling, probably more so to his dad than to himself.

“The Midnight Crew,” John explained, pausing in order to decide what would and wouldn’t be good to mention in his overview of the night. He decided to stick with key points for now, covering the basics of what the gang had plotted while his dad was checking him over. They’d most likely have to review things in better detail come morning, considering how much John felt as though he would be skipping over.

“They torched a factory. That makes it sound like it was less than it was, but the whole thing was an inferno. I couldn’t get very close and it was already too late to salvage the building by the time I got there. Nearby I found a message the Midnight Crew had left for me on a roof which said if I didn’t show up to the docks by midnight, there would be more explosions. Even though it was an obvious trap, I couldn’t risk them targeting someplace occupied, so I went. They sent out a firing squad with one of the higher ups I caught the other day, Boxcars. All of the marks are from the beginning when they just opened fire and I didn’t have a strong enough barrier up. Then there was the concussion grenade that blew up in my face when I was in a, uh, tornado.” His father’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline at that and he renewed his search of John’s body, but he said nothing.

“I did what you said to do to minimize damage and protect against the explosion, but I dislocated my shoulder and my collarbone is... well, I’m not sure. Broken, I think. I can’t really hear through my left ear right now, either.”

The man nodded stiffly, mouth set in a tight line as he his hands ghosted over John’s collarbone and shoulder, applying the bare minimum of pressure. When he touched the swollen area of John’s collarbone, the teen let out a light hiss, his father’s hands instantly dropping as his eyes softened considerably.

“I think you’re right about you clavicle being fractured. I’ll need to check to make sure it isn’t anything more serious. Come with me,” he murmured, already halfway across the room and going in the direction of the main hallway. John hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by the speed with which his dad was moving. He’d never known the man to be anything but calm and composed. He walked quickly away, hurrying towards the hall and basement door, before he realized John was still standing in place. When he looked back at him, John noted pinched eyebrows, a concerned frown, and worried eyes. 

Seeing him like that made John immediately feel guilty for getting hurt, and his first instinct was that he should offer up some sort of apology.

“John, please, come on. You might need surgery if it’s serious.”

He wasn’t exactly sure why they had to go downstairs if that were the case, but he didn’t question the order, following promptly with no further delay. When they reached the basement and the light switch had been flipped, his dad headed straight to one of the mirrored panels set against the corner of one of the walls. John followed after him, more than slightly curious as his dad pressed his palm flat against the mirrored surface and gave a gentle push.

There was a very slight click—something which John only just caught with his right ear—before the entire mirrored panel opened up and swung on an invisible hinge to reveal a sizable storage space which John had had no idea was there.

His mouth dropping open in slight shock, John observed as there was at least enough room in there for his dad to disappear into, re-emerging moments later pushing a small machine in front of him. It looked like medical equipment of some sort, though the likes of which he couldn’t readily identify, which meant it was probably something his father had procured through his connections with former military contacts. The device appeared to be a big bulky rectangle, with a large screen on the front and a large amount of dials and buttons under that. John wondered what else his dad stored in the space, but the panel was closed with a backwards nudge from the man’s foot before John could take a peek. It was probably just more things for scenarios such as this, he reasoned, machines and tools and other such things to patch John up and avoid a hospital if at all possible. Idly, he wondered how much money his dad had actually spent on things just in the event that something happened.

“This is going to help me take some x-rays. Tell me what else happened tonight while I set it up.” John nodded to himself as he watched his father unspool a long cord from the back of the machine and plug it into a wall socket before returning with a stool for John to sit on and then going back to fiddling with a series of knobs and buttons on the now-identified scanner’s front.

“I don’t really know what I was planning to do after the grenade knocked me down. I was scared and for a moment I wasn’t sure I was going to survive, and I kinda wanted to run, but that’s...that’s not what a hero does. A lot of people could have died if I had run and let the Crew have free reign of things, but I’ve never felt overwhelmed like that before. I’ve never felt like I could die so easily,” he spit out, his voice breaking a few times as he dredged up the emotions from earlier in the night that he’d worked so hard to suppress. His dad had stopped calibrating the machine and was staring at his face intently, and all at once John was almost overwhelmed with a feeling of self-consciousness.

“They had me pinned down behind a forklift. Just when I was planning something like circling around and hoping no one noticed so I could flank them, Hemogoblin showed up and took down like half the entire group before they caught on to what what happening.” His dad walked over and placed a few heavy pieces of what John figured to be lead-lined strip around his neck and shoulder. The older Egbert pulled out a bulky rectangular wand from the machine’s side, then, and held it up to his collarbone, fiddling around with a few knobs on the wand as John continued. “He was just so fearless despite how many guys he was facing. Big guys with lots of guns taken out by one troll,” he mused, his tone fond. His father studiously ignored looking at him as the machine let out a startlingly-loud buzz and whir. “It inspired me to make a move, but I was really scared of what could have happened there.”

John watched in fascination as crisp black and white images immediately appeared on the screen attached to the body of the scanner, his father examining the screen with intense scrutiny. Rather than looking at the screen, John watched the man’s face as carefully as he could, trying to pick out from his reactions what he was seeing. 

More than anything, he could really use some of the comforting words his dad often supplied in excess right about now, because now that he was once again reliving that night, his inner turmoil was again surfacing to acknowledge just how vulnerable he had felt while hiding against that forklift, trying desperately to rack his brain for a plan of action that wasn’t suicidal. Was it wrong for a hero to be afraid? Everything he had to compare himself to—the comics, the movies, the articles on heroes both imaginary and real—told him he was supposed to be fearless.

“Son.” John looked back to his dad just before he felt a hand meet his good shoulder. Fingers curled in a reassuring squeeze, and John felt some of his troubles melting away. It wasn’t anywhere near as effective as when Hemogoblin had held his hand, but it was doing the job of calming him down considerably. The rare softness in his father’s eyes wasn’t hurting, either. “I am so, so proud of you. I may say it so often that you don’t realize how much I mean it, but it’s the truest thing I can possibly tell you. It’s normal to be afraid. What’s extraordinary is to face those fears head on. You have become such a courageous young man, and I literally could not be more proud to be your father. ”

John smiled softly, unable to keep his dad’s gaze for more than a few seconds, feeling somewhat bashful at the praise. As much as he sometimes shrugged off his dad’s praise or rolled his eyes at him, it really did mean a lot to hear that. Still...

“I... people died tonight, Dad.” John ducked his head, eyes following the angry circles covering his skin until his gaze met the floor. His voice sounded distant to his ears, faint like he was hearing it from another room. He wished he had Hemogoblin’s hand to cling to while his mind relived the choices he had made again. As it was, his hands tightened into angry fists against his knees where he was resting them.

“I didn’t want... Someone was aiming at Hemogoblin, and I...just...” The hand which still rested warmly on John’s shoulder shook him gently from his mumbling. He looked at his father’s calm face with wide eyes, afraid of what all this could mean. Would his dad still be proud of a killer?

“I trust you more than anything, John. If you believed that it had to be done to protect his life, then that’s that. Ever since you were a young boy and you got it into your head that this is what you wanted to do, I knew that something like this would someday happen. Life isn’t like fiction or comic books, where the good guys always win and people never die. Life is full of tough decisions that have to be made despite us not wanting to make them, whether it’s taking a life in self defense or sacrificing something or someone you care about for the greater good.”

John swallowed hard, accepting the man’s words. With the way his father’s eyes were softened and looking into his own with understanding and acceptance, John had the inkling that maybe he was talking from experience. He’d never gone into details of what he actually did in the military, but this...the words flowed from his mouth like they were practiced, without pause for reflection and with the assuredness that what he was saying was correct, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d had to say such a speech. It was as disturbing to hear as it was comforting. 

“I know it’s hard on you and I’m sorry that you’re having to shoulder this burden when you’re still so young. If it was up to me, you’d never have to experience this ever. Still, I’ve tried to raise you to respect life and to instill a sense of honour within you, and I know without doubt that I’ve succeeded. You being upset and fearful of what happened shows me you have the qualities of not only a hero, but of a good man. I’ll say it again: I have never been more proud to call you my son than I am now, John.”

With his father’s absolution, John found that his eyes were stinging with unshed tears as he allowed himself to be gently pulled in for a hug. Having been momentarily forgetful of his injury, John was reminded quickly with a sudden jolt of pain. He bit it back, however, as the removal of the emotional weight from his shoulders far outweighed the pain of his actual shoulder.

After a few soft pats on the back, John’s dad pulled away. “Your collarbone is cracked. While it could be much worse and it will heal naturally without any medical intervention, I want you to avoid heavy lifting and swinging Casey with your left arm for a few weeks. It might be difficult to do with the Midnight Crew still at large, but please try to rest it when you can afford to do so. I’ll get you a sling to wear during the day, but at night you’ll just have to be aware of it. Heir can’t be seen injured, especially now. Of course, this also means we’ll be taking a break from any strenuous training and that you shouldn’t take part in any physical activity at school. If your classmates or teachers ask about it, explain that you dislocated your shoulder in training. I trust you to expand on any details of your story if pressed for them; I expect Karkat will not be satisfied with something so vague.” 

John nodded along, only half paying attention to the plans. His dad would get him a doctor’s note for Monday, either forged or legitimate from the trusted family doctor. John severely doubted a piece of paper would be enough to quell his best friend’s inevitable worry, however. Focusing on the thought of Karkat being concerned, John wondered just how much the troll would fuss over him at the sight of a sling. He knew he would get yelled at for being careless, but then after that, Karkat would be so careful around him. Maybe even try to take care of him by doing little things for him. He was actually looking forward to it.

“You said you couldn’t hear well out of your left ear. Let me take a look.” His dad ducked into his office off to the side of their makeshift gym, returning momentarily with an otoscope. With delicate prods of cold metal, the examination spanned a few silent minutes. “It looks like the eardrum is perforated, but I’ve seen worse. It’s small enough that I’m comfortable with seeing if it will close on its own before consulting an otolaryngologist, but you’ll need to be careful to keep your ear dry. You won’t be swimming with a broken clavicle, anyways.”

John would miss the freedom swimming gave him but couldn’t protest. He wouldn’t be able to swim with his injuries and, while he wanted to complain for the sake of complaining, he had no energy for it. There would be empty hours now in his usually busy schedule where his extracurricular activity fit, and he couldn’t quite imagine what to do with the free time. Maybe he’d get to hang out with Karkat more often? That’d be nice.

“I also think I may have been concussed.”

His father nodded, getting up and retrieving a handful of more mundane medical tools from the office. This may have been the first time John was seriously injured on the job, but they weren’t exactly strangers to concussion, especially when John was younger and was just learning how to control his flying.

After asking him the usual litany of neurological questions like if he’d had any vomiting, memory loss, persistent dizziness, or confusion that accompanied serious head trauma, his dad performed several reflex and coordination tests. After five minutes of poking, prodding, and tapping, he seemed satisfied. “Doesn’t seem like you need a CT scan, though we should keep an eye on you just to be safe.” 

As he set the tools on the ground, he gave his son another long look-over. “You look nearly dead on your feet, son.” A hand patting his shoulder brought John out of an imagined scenario involving Karkat carrying his books to class for him while complaining about his recklessness and how useless he was as a frail human. “You’ve had a long night; get some sleep. I’ll be up to check on you every few hours to make sure there’s no lasting damage from that concussion.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. You’re right. Night, dad.” John turned without delay and headed towards the stairs, glad that it was still just Saturday and that he had the opportunity to sleep in. He was pretty sure that his aching body might actually allow him to rest past nine, for once.

“John, just one more thing.” John smiled slightly as he turned to face his father once more, but his lips quickly fell. The man’s eyes were like hardened steel, his expression so serious that John felt his shoulders automatically tensing up. “If anyone were to seriously threaten your life again, I want you to end it, no matter what the cost. If you ever lost your life because you hesitated to do what you needed to do, whoever did it would have their life forfeited regardless. I’d make sure of it. Remember that.”

John nodded stiffly, the coldness in his father’s gaze and the finality in his tone disturbing him greatly. Heaven help whoever fucked with an Egbert.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sgt: The Midnight Crew troll who appears in panel 1 and 2 is tumblr user Mage-of-Time’s fantroll, Soreno. Mage won our last big giveaway and we’re happy to finally share this prize.
> 
> Protip: Hemo tells John his background because he's freaking out inside over Heir losing his cool, and that's all he can think to do to distract and hopefully calm him down. Heir is supposed to be the veteran hero, after all, so to see him at the verge of a panic attack is jarring as hell. Heir was revealed to be a human being after all, so Hemo revealed that he was just as human (not...literally. Still a Troll) to calm him down. Obviously, it worked.
> 
> So, yeah! This was a long, long time coming. I apologize for that, but I'm not going to make any excuses. Real life got in the way and it was extremely difficult to focus on being creative. I just want to reiterate, however, how firm we are that this fic will never end until we've reached its conclusion. It will never be abandoned before completion, and it won't die. That I can swear to you. We are too invested in this to ever give it up, and we have a long, long way to go! This thing probably has a few more _years_ left on it.
> 
> That being said, here's a message to all who doubted that we'd update and sent us rude messages stating as such:
> 
>  
> 
> Image courtesy of Kel!
> 
> Chapter 10 signals a return to action as well as the introduction of a new Crew member, so stay tuned and see you then! Sgt. out.
> 
> Chief Writer - Bananaramses  
> Plot/Editor - SergeantMeow  
> Illustrator - Panicismyrain


	10. Intermission: In Which Loose Ends Are Tied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Bet you didn’t expect to hear from us again so soon! This isn’t a full update, but rather an intermission. We have several intermissions planned throughout the story for various reasons, some of them for character development, some of them just for the hell of it, and some of them to inject some humor into the story. An intermission doesn’t mean that we’re taking a break or anything like it, it’s just that we have a scene or two that doesn’t fit in with the normal flow of the story.
> 
> To that end, this (and all other) intermission is a complete and total departure from regular. Rather than being told in our regular third person limited, we switch to a second person narrative. Rather than having Bananaramses write, Sgt. wrote this one. Rather than it being our usual multi-thousands long chapters, it’s relatively tiny. Rather than having Panic do the art, we went with a guest artist. The plan is to use a different guest artist for each intermission, in order to get a completely different feel from normal. This intermission’s artist is the very talented **Bakerstuck**. Be sure to check out their tumblr for more awesome art!

///

**== > Be the really pissed off gangster.**

Your name is Spades Slick, and you really, really fucking hate heroes right about now. With a passion. If you never encountered another hero for the rest of your natural life, it’d be too soon. You hate incompetence, too, maybe even more than heroes. Incompetence in your organization pisses you off like nothing else.

The recipient of your current ire is sitting in the backseat of your classic black Jaguar Mk VII, because if you’re going to be a successful international mobster, you better believe you’re going to goddamn drive like one, too. Your car is parked in front of the police station where you’ve just sprung Boxcars out on bail.

He’s seen better days, that’s for sure. The big lug’s nose is twisted and purple from bruising, and somehow his mug looks even uglier than it was before, as if you thought that was possible. He’s sitting stiff with a neckbrace keeping him looking forward at all times, and he seems to have a permanent glare set on his face. He’s not glaring _at_ you, of course, because he’s not _that_ stupid, but his demeanor suits you just fine because you’re glaring right back.

“So, tell me again, Hearts, how you managed to so completely botch a simple hit that it ended up with twenty-two of our members sitting in a pissant little jail?” If Boxcars had any semblance of something even remotely resembling intelligence, now would be a good time to tread carefully in his response. You are prone to being slightly moody when your peons upset you, and then you have to call in the cleaners. It’s not cheap getting brain matter scrubbed out of car upholstery. 

When he spoke, Boxcars’s words were nasally and congested, likely as a result of his broken nose. “Everything went as planned, boss, I swears. We had the kid on the ropes runnin’ scared. He was injured an’ we had him surrounded completely. We woulda had him done in if that other one hadn’ta showed up and started taking us out from behind.”

You can feel a vein throbbing in your forehead and you resist the urge to reach into your pocket and grab one of your many knives, if only because you just got this suit dry cleaned and you don’t want to get blood on it. If there’s one thing you hate more than heroes and incompetents, it’s unforeseen obstacles hindering your meticulous plans. “ _What_ other one?” you hiss.

Boxcars must recognize the murderous look in your eyes because he sits up a little straighter and his glare slackens. “The other hero. Hemoglobin, or whatever. Guy about Heir’s age, runs around in a black an’ red number. Likes to cut people up an’ kick ‘em.”

You still at that and go silent. Another hero. Fucking perfect. Because your life is just so goddamn peachy that it required another hero in it to liven things up, right? You turn to Droog sitting in the driver’s seat, the troll’s long, thin fingers clutching the steering wheel even though the car has been sitting there motionless for half an hour now.

“Find the incompetent shit who was responsible for putting the briefing of this city together and have him removed. If they were too fucking stupid to note that this place had _two_ heroes and not just one, they don’t deserve to live on this planet. And you,” you growl, turning back to face Boxcars. “Are there any loose ends to this?”

The gargantuan fuckup shifts uncomfortably. “I dunno. Maybe.”

You sit and stare at him for a good thirty seconds as he looks at you expectantly, and you swear to god you can literally see the gears decidedly -not- turning in his head. You are _this_ close to stabbing him. In order to give your hands something to do besides stabbing, you take out a cigarette from your inner coat pocket and Droog removes his hands from the wheel to lean over and light you up. “And, you dumb piece of shit? What is it?” Breathe in. Exhale.

“Ah. Well, you know Soreno, right? My demolitions guy? He came inta the station a few hours after everyone else. Claims he escaped b’fore the cops got there, only thing is, I remember him being knocked out b’fore those two snots took me down. S’kinda fishy.”

You sigh and bring your hand up to rub your temple, cigarette held loosely between your fingers. “Anything else?”

“No, boss.”

You frown, take a long, slow drag from your cigarette, then roll down the window and toss the butt out onto the pavement. “We’ll need to shift operations in case there’s been a breach. It’s a good thing we plan accordingly for such occasions.” As you say this, Droog reaches into his coat pocket and hands you a cellphone, a number already punched into its screen. You give him a nod and he starts the car, turning on his blinker in order to pull out into the mid-morning traffic. As you wait, you give Droog a look.

“How’s production?”

Droog takes a moment to slowly ease the car into traffic before responding, his attention fixed on the car in front of him. “Ahead of schedule. We’ve nearly worked the kinks from the first batch completely out. It’s still affecting the hypothalamus to an unnecessary degree, but we’re working on ways to mitigate the damage.”

“Good work. At least one person in this outfit isn’t a useless prick. I want reports of your team’s progress every hour until it’s perfected.”

“Yes, boss.”

The light changes ahead and the car starts rolling. You wait until you’re a block away before you hit the ‘Send’ button on the phone and turn around to watch the show as the police station violently explodes into a hellish ball of fire, all twenty-something of your crewmates and any evidence of the night’s activities being incinerated instantly.

“No loose ends.”

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. Short, but sweet. Spades Slick makes his debut! The reasons behind him being the focus of this intermission are multi-faceted. For one, we wanted a really interesting way of introducing such a fun character. Secondly, it is somewhat difficult to capture Slick’s nature in a second person limited POV without it taking quite a few words. We wanted something quick and efficient. Lastly, this scene wouldn’t have fit in with Chapter 10 without us having to have shifted things around in that chapter dramatically, and we’re not quite yet to the point in the story where we want to start shifting POVs mid-chapter.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! It was a lot of fun writing, even if it was super quick to write. Chapter 10 is in the process of being written and I hope to get to some editing this weekend. This story has a lot left to it, and I really can’t wait to share it!
> 
> Happy Valentine’s Day, and see you next time~  
> -Sgt.
> 
> \-----------  
> Writing: Sgt. Meow  
> Art: Bakerstuck/error-404-fuck-not-found


	11. In Which...Holy Shit, What the Fuck was That?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is jam-packed with goodies. Hope you're prepared for some obscenely pale smut taking place in public.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> ****  
> Be sure to check out the endnotes for an amazing bonus by our new artist  
> 

///

When John awoke approximately eight hours later and blearily looked at his cellphone for the time, he had one goal in mind: to forgo the world of consciousness and go back to sleep for at least a few days. Every inch of his body ached with a pain that sunk deep into his bones, a none too gentle reminder of the previous night’s activities. Letting his cellphone drop carelessly back onto his nightstand, he sighed huffily into his pillow. He wanted nothing more than to burrow himself into his cozy comforter and fall back into a dreamless slumber.

His mind seemed to have different plans, unfortunately. After routinely waking up at the crack of dawn for as long as he could remember, his stupid brain was already alert. Even if he still felt too tired to be useful to anyone, he couldn’t break years of conditioning that told him he had slept long enough and that it was well past time to get up.

Eyelids narrowly opened against the strong sunlight filtering through the cracks of his drawn curtains, the light of early afternoon bright and judgmental. Even when he was little, he couldn’t ever remember sleeping away the entire morning before, much less until noon. He couldn’t recall a single instance when his body had needed so much rest, before—desired it, maybe, but never needed it. Granted, he had never taken a grenade to the face before, either.

After five more minutes of lazing in the comfort of his bed, he gradually coaxed himself into a sitting position. Despite his grogginess, he had the sense of mind to put all of his weight on his right arm, careful to keep pressure off of his injured left. His entire body protested from the simple motion, as if he had slept for a week rather than just eight hours.

All at once, the teen’s nose wrinkled as his senses kindly decided to make him aware of the thick smell of stale sweat and rust that was wafting up from his skin. Sufficiently grossed out by his own less than satisfactory personal hygiene level, John decided a shower was long overdue.

He got out of bed slowly, no longer wanting to stew around in his grossness and further ruin a set of perfectly good sheets that had done absolutely nothing wrong to him. Once detached from the bed, he carefully stretched out his stiff joints in a rough pantomime of his normal routine for a good five minutes before going to his dresser to retrieve a clean set of clothes. After scooping up a pair of unflattering grey sweatpants and a swim team t-shirt which had been ordered two sizes too big, John made his way out of his room, down the hallway, and into the bathroom.

The reflection that greeted him in the mirror looked less terrible than it had the night before by far, though his eyes still retained traces of someone who had had a less than pleasurable evening. Peeling away the bandages on his face revealed fresh skin, still a bit raw, but more or less healed. After slipping out of his pajamas as carefully as he could and a quick inspection of the rest of his body, John found that the only visible concerns were the bruises, mottled and tender against his skin. They would likely fade away completely before school on Monday if his prior experiences with injury still held – not that he wouldn’t easily keep them covered if they hadn’t faded; no gym class and no swimming meant no questions about strange, round bruises.

Finding nothing else noticeable aside from the inflamed area high on the left side of his collarbone, he stepped into the shower and cranked the heat on full. The water beat down in a cold torrent before warming to an almost scalding temperature, though the heat suited John’s sore muscles just fine. Working to ease the tightness out of his body, he massaged at sore spots and stiff joints until, after what seemed an eternity, he finally felt himself loosening up. Thoughts of Hemogoblin and the troll’s regenerative powers came to mind along with a pang of jealousy as he kneaded a stubborn knot along his left thigh. What he wouldn’t give to be able to borrow the troll’s abilities right about now. Deciding it was best not to dwell too long on thoughts of Hemogoblin while naked in the shower, he focused his attention back on trying to get his body to relax. 

By the time John stepped out of the shower, there was a haze of steam hanging lazily in the air, the mirror completely obscured. He towelled off his flushed skin with the aid of only one hand before going about the task of dressing himself. The clothes were the loosest set that he owned, making the ordeal less of a challenge than it might have been otherwise. He managed to pull on his boxers and shimmy into his pants before pulling on his shirt, doing his best to use his left hand as minimally as possible. It wasn’t as difficult as one would imagine, as even though he was predominantly left-handed, he had been trained early on to be ambidextrous.

As he retrieved his scattered pajamas from the ground, he found that his battered costume was no longer in the tub where he had unceremoniously tossed it hours earlier. That meant his dad had probably taken it upon himself to clean and repair the suit sometime during the morning, which was a relief. John hadn’t even considered how much of an ordeal an attempt to sew would have been with one arm immobilized.

As he once again stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, John pondered what exactly to do now. He hadn’t had any immediate plans upon getting up other than to appease his restless body, eat absurd amounts of food, and possibly get some homework out of the way. What he _really_ wanted was to go curl back up in his bed, though he knew nothing would come of it. That, and there was no way he was crawling back in there before his sheets saw the inside of a washing machine. 

John picked up a brush from next to the sink and fiddled with his hair for a few moments before giving the endeavor up as a loss, and decided he might as well get started on his plans for the day. Breakfast or...lunch, really, sounded really great right about then. There was a quick detour to his room to drop his dirty clothes into the hamper and to pocket his cellphone off of the nightstand before he was on his way out of the room. He took the stairs two at a time, feeling much more energetic at the thought of food than his sore body probably warranted at the moment. 

When he got to the bottom, John paused at the last step, spotting his father sitting comfortably in his favourite chair while leafing through the morning paper. Rather than his usual weekend button-down and slacks, he was dressed in a white two-piece suit, which meant he had gone out or was planning to. He doubted the man had missed his tromping down the stairs, but he apparently didn’t feel the need to acknowledge him yet, so engrossed was he in whatever story he was reading, so John took the opportunity to try and gauge the man’s mood from his countenance and body language. While last night’s encounter with his father’s colleague had been all high tension and barely restrained hostility, now there was only relaxed ease in his father’s appearance. He seemed relaxed, his face slightly pinched at whatever it was he was reading, but with none of the stark anger that had given John so much concern just a handful of hours before.

His dad must have finished reading, because he folded the newspaper neatly before setting it down on the coffee table. “Morning, son,” he greeted with a kind smile, a smile that released some tension that John hadn’t been aware that he was feeling. He’d needed to see that fatherly grin again, badly. The smile stretched further in amusement before the man corrected himself, “Or afternoon, I should say. Have a good rest?”

John felt the stirrings of embarrassment in his cheeks, but squashed the feeling down immediately. Getting embarrassed over sleeping was dumb. He wasn’t a little boy who could be goaded for being too slow in the mornings, anymore. “I feel like I could use a couple dozen more hours, but yeah.” 

“Good, good. You should take it easy today. Any problems with your head?”

John shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Not that I’ve noticed. Besides the tiredness, I feel fine.”

“Excellent,” he grinned, the smile on his face slipping a little as he seemed to consider his next words. “I got a call this morning and the office wanted me to head in as soon as possible for a meeting. I told them they could wait until you were up and about, so they’re probably all sitting around a table right about now.”

John scowled. “Dad, you could have woken me up earlier if you had to go. I wouldn’t have minded.” Actually, he probably would have minded just a little bit, but he would have gotten over it.

“Your well-being is always my top priority and you clearly needed the rest. Besides, some of them could learn to have a bit of patience.” The way the man’s tone shifted to contain a bitter edge gave John the distinct feeling that his dad was referring specifically to the woman with the rose-colored eyes. Before John thought to probe for any answers about the woman, his dad continued their conversation with a reassuring smile. “Now, let’s get you into a sling and fix you something to eat.”

The sling was waiting on the coffee table next to the newspaper. His dad retrieved it before walking over to John to give him a quick lesson on how to slip it on. Once the strap had been buckled around his right shoulder, he received a customary scan up and down – just in case something was severely out of place since last night – then a pat on the shoulder.

“That looks like it’ll do. Now. You must be starving.” 

His reply was quick and eager. “I think it’s a safe bet that I could eat everything in the fridge and part of the fridge itself, yeah.” His dad chuckled but wasted no more time, making a beeline for the kitchen. 

John hesitated to follow, finding his attention focused on the newspaper his dad had abandoned on his chair. He tried to guess the headline and how the editor of that particular paper had decided to spin the happenings of last night. He was pretty sure his father would have mentioned something right away if Heir or Hemogoblin were currently wanted for murder, but that line of logic did little to relieve the sudden churning in his stomach as he pictured some shocking headline about how the city’s paragon hero had turned into a violent vigilante. As he awkwardly reached for the paper by bending slightly at the waist, John tried to tell himself that the only reason his hand was shaking was because his muscles were so sore.

His breath held, he did his best to unfold the paper as he clenched it tightly in his right hand, his eyes scanning the front page almost desperately.

“SEATTLE UNDER FIRE: MAYOR VAGAS TO PUSH FOR CITY-WIDE CURFEW” was set in big, bold type across the front page, along with an accompanying image of the warehouse fire John had witnessed. Just looking at it brought back the smell of ash and the feel of heat on his skin. His eyes trailed over it quickly only to land on another photo, this one of the bank from the other day, as well as Boxcars’s wrecked car. There was a caption underneath that one, explaining how Heir had caught several witnesses fleeing the scene and apprehended them, only for them to make bail later that day. Further down in the article, there was a small photograph of Seattle’s mayor, Walter Vagas, his usual cheery face grave as he spoke to a crowd of reporters and onlookers. 

As he skimmed the article for the finer details, John became more and more confused. Beyond the mention of his assistance after the robbery, there was absolutely no mention of Heir or Hemogoblin, or of the fight at the docks at all. By the time he got near to the end of the article, his consternation was almost palpable. He checked the sidebars to see if the story could have been covered on another page, but besides a small blurb about a downtown high school burning down and a minor break in at the Seattle Museum of Art, there was nothing. His frown slipped a little once he’d finished scanning the front page, his gaze automatically tracking back to reread the last paragraph of the article more slowly.

It briefly mentioned that there was another explosion and shots fired in the dockyards, but that no concrete information had become available by the time the paper went to print. John stared at that sentence, running it through his head a few times before he dropped the paper back onto his father’s chair and let out a loud sigh.

 _Oh_. Of _course_ the papers wouldn’t have anything about last night. The fight at the docks hadn’t concluded until almost one in the morning, and there was absolutely no way that the cops could have salvaged any information from the crime scene quickly enough to alert the media before they were forced to go to print, let alone time to declare the town heroes as suspects to murder. Duh.

His musings were interrupted by a humming coming from the kitchen, accompanied by the sounds of plates clinking, and the teen felt himself relax a bit. He wasn’t wanted for murder, and he wasn’t a fugitive. Not yet, at least.

Still. It had been about twelve hours since the showdown at the docks, and that was plenty of time for the police to have put together a rough scenario of what had happened. Probably enough time for them to have released some statements to the press, too.

In a flash, John was digging through the sofa cushions in an attempt to locate the remote for the TV. When that endeavor proved fruitless, he proceeded to search all of the usual nooks and crannies that the elusive remote liked to hide in, but it was to no avail. He was just about to give up and attempt to operate the TV manually when he spotted it, tucked into the entertainment cabinet next to the DVD player, likely placed there by his dad in one of his cleaning fits.

He almost tripped over himself in his hurry to retrieve it, and before long, the TV was tuned to one of the local news stations. On the screen was a female troll, standing in front of what obviously used to be some kind of building, but which now was only burnt ruins. There were firefighters and teams of people crawling all over the remains like ants in an anthill, and John impatiently mashed on the volume button until he could actually hear what they were saying through his still fuzzy left ear.

“—still sifting through the debris. We still have no new information to share, as the police have cordoned off the area and are treating it as an active crime scene. The last we heard, search and rescue had just called in several of their K9-units in an attempt to find any possible survivors. That was almost half an hour ago, however, and we’ve yet to see any survivors pulled from the building. We’ll keep you updated on any new information that surfaces as this story develops. Thomas, back to you.”

The footage cut back to the newsroom, where two anchors, a male troll and a female human, were sitting. “Thank you, Adelyn. If you’re just now tuning in, we’re bringing you live coverage of the West Precinct, where earlier this morning an explosion occurred that has devastated the precinct and caused significant damage to surrounding buildings. It is unclear at this time how many people are unaccounted for, though we do have reports that most of the staff were out on rotation at the time of the incident. Adelyn, do we know for sure yet whether or not the cause of the explosion was accidental?”

The screen changed again to the reporter. “Not yet, Thomas. Like I said, the police _are_ treating this as an active crime scene until it can be confirmed without doubt that there was no criminal intent. As you know, this is the third such explosion to rock our city within just as many days, and the police are being very careful to avoid alarming anyone for fear of causing a panic. We have received word from Mayor Vagas’s office that the mayor does in fact wish to treat these as related incidents, and he will be instituting a mandatory curfew tonight for all citizens. There’s no word yet on whether or not the government will be getting involved in the situation, but our analysts are expecting as much at some point in the near future.”

_Holy shit. What the hell was happening to his city?_

“What about civilian casualties? I’m told that there were a large number of people being held in the precinct at the time of the explosion?”

“That’s right, Thomas. Our early reports are saying that the vast majority of those involved in the Waterfront shootout earlier were being held in this very precinct. The police have so far refused to comment on speculations that they may have been the targets of the attack, saying that it is much too soon to be drawing any concrete conclusions and that their primary goal right now is to search for any survivors who may be trapped under the rubble. Our analysts…”

The rest of the reporter’s words flowed in and out of John’s ears without any actual comprehension as his mind buzzed furiously like a kicked hornet’s nest. There had a been a third bombing in his city. Not only that, but at a _police station_. There was no doubt in his mind who the perpetrators were, but he was absolutely flabbergasted that the Midnight Crew would have the balls to straight up attack the police like that.

A pain started to stir in John’s chest as his breathing quickened, his mind refusing to get off of this point. _Just what the hell had he gotten himself into_? He was in way, _way_ over his head if these people were willing to go so far as to kill all of their own just to silence them. A soft _crunch_ sounded throughout the room, but John paid it no heed. All of those people…

Everyone he had fought last night. They were all dead. John squeezed his eyes shut, the noises from the television becoming a buzzing that kept growing louder and louder.

“—ohn. JOHN.”

The feeling of a hand touching his shoulder caused his entire body to jerk suddenly as he leapt to the side away from the touch and into a defensive stance, his eyes wide and searching before he realized it was only his father. The man’s hand was still outstretched in the space which only a moment before his son had occupied. He was frowning deeply, looking John over as if searching for signs of injury.

Something fell to the floor at John’s feet, and it took his brain several long moments to work out what exactly he was seeing. It was half of the TV remote. The other half was still clutched firmly in his iron-like fist, the plastic broken into numerous pieces. Oops. That explained the crunch, at least.

“Are you okay, John? I was just coming to check on you since you didn’t answer when I called. Lunch is ready.” Charles Egbert’s face was still set in a deeply concerned frown as he gauged his son, his eyes staring intently into the teenager’s face.

John turned his head, feeling a bit awkward under his father’s intense stare, and forced his body to relax. The remains of the remote slipped from his hand and joined the rest on the floor with a clatter, but his father chose not to comment on it. That wasn’t the first time he’d accidentally broken something, not by a long shot.

“I’m...fine,” he said shakily, doing his best to calm the rapid beating of his heart. He took several long, deep breaths, seeking his center. When he was calm again, he turned to the TV. “Did you see this?”

John felt his father’s eyes on his back for several more long moments before he moved to stand beside his son, bending down to pick up the pieces of the remote. “Yes. I didn’t want you to hear about it from the news. I wanted to tell you about it while you ate.”

“Ah,” John opined, staring at the images on the screen for several more moments without really listening to it. When he’d had enough, he reached over and turned the power off manually. “I just wanted to see if Hemogoblin or I were in trouble with the cops over the shootout. They weren’t even talking about that, though.”

His dad made a noncommittal noise and stood back up, all of the little plastic pieces from the remote in his cupped hands. “The police have been busy this morning. I doubt they’ve even had time to perform a proper investigation down at the dockyard, yet. We probably won’t hear about it until later, once they’ve had time to settle things at the precinct. For now, don’t worry about it. I’m sure everything will work out fine.”

John wished he could have the man’s confidence. As he followed him into the kitchen, his appetite thoroughly diminished, his thoughts, unbidden, switched gears, and for a moment, he was almost overcome with the desire to be comforted as he had the previous night. His immediate thoughts went to Hemogoblin and the way that the troll had soothed his anxiety by holding his hand and just talking with him. If he really concentrated, he could still imagine the warmth of the troll’s hand on his own. But he wouldn’t be able to see Hemogoblin until later that night, and there would probably be little to no time to talk about their feelings with all that they were hoping to accomplish with their captured intel.

Still, there were others who absolutely excelled at bringing him comfort, and at that thought, John’s face split into a wide grin. “Say, Dad. I’m feeling kind of shitty. Maybe I can see about a da-...a _thing_ with Karkat, this afternoon? Would you mind? I’ll be really careful with my shoulder.”

His father laughed as he lifted the lid to the trashcan and threw out the pieces of the remote, the tension draining away and a knowing smile plastering its way onto his face. “Of course not, John. Whatever you think will make you feel better. I left a couple of sandwiches on the table for you, but be sure not to fill up before your...thing,” he said with an elaborate wink.

John blatantly ignored the way his dad made air-quotes at the word ‘thing,’ and then briefly toyed with the idea of lifting the self-imposed ban on pie-fighting, because that man was seriously starting to push his luck with his teasing. He’d have to save that thought for later, however, because his dad was out the door and off to his meeting as soon as John had assured him that there was absolutely nothing more that he needed. That, and he didn’t have any pies on hand, and it would be a major douche move to pie him while he was wearing his business suit, anyway.

With a sigh, he sat down at the table, feeling the stirrings of his hunger returning. Heir’s costume was folded up all clean and looking slightly less worse for wear than it had when he’d last worn it, sitting right next to a plate holding two rather impressively large sandwiches. He didn’t want to go through the trouble of undoing the folded costume with just one arm, but he could tell just from looking that his suit was sporting several new stitches and patches. It must have taken his father hours to do all that, and he idly wondered when the man had found the time. With all that he managed to squeeze into a day, he probably slept even less than Karkat did, he mused. Still, he was incredibly grateful. That was one less thing he had to do himself, at least.

He drew the plate of sandwiches close, doing his best to hold one of the giant things with a single hand, and took a huge bite, relishing in the burst of flavour as a particularly juicy tomato slice made itself known. It was simple enough fare, really, but John found that after a life or death experience like he’d had last night, simple was more than pleasing.

Though he tried to savor each bite as best he could, both of the sandwiches were gone within minutes, hardly a single crumb left on his plate. He still wasn’t completely full, but he did feel leaps and bounds better than he had several minutes ago. That did absolutely nothing to dissuade him from his plans, however, as he fished his phone out from his pants pocket and started writing Karkat a text. That he could do one-handed with no problem, at least.

Sent. Leaning forward, he grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl in the center of the table, which he proceeded to make incredibly short work of. Just as he was contemplating how difficult it would be to consume an orange with only one working hand, his phone buzzed loudly against the table. Karkat’s replies occasionally took some time to come, but those that did were usually well worth the wait. This one did not disappoint.

John rolled his eyes, a grin stretching across his face, completely secure in the knowledge that Karkat couldn’t see him doing it. Someone had definitely woken up on the sassy side of the bed this morning. Not that that was unusual, as Karkat Vantas pretty much lived on the sassy side of the bed. He was firmly entrenched on that side of the bed, probably with a weird troll blanket cocoon, and would not be able to budge from that position for all of the bribery in the world. Karkat Vantas was forever lost to the Sassy Side.

He mulled over the troll’s response for all of two seconds before dismissing his friend’s complaints out of hand. It was a well known fact that Karkat’s idea of being busy on a Saturday without work was waking up late, eating later, and lazing around on the internet until he felt like sleeping again. Interspersed throughout his day could be a sappy movie or four, comic books, and engaging in a strange back and forth with Crabdad which John would never quite understand. In summary, there was never anything to make a fuss over missing, not that that would ever stop Karkat from doing just that.

The reply was almost instantaneous, an insistent vibration in his hand before John could even think over his choice of words, much let set the phone back down on the table.

Though it was short and to the point, Karkat’s response filled John with happiness. Knowing that the abrasive troll cared enough to drop whatever it was he was doing and rush over without delay just reminded him that, as much as Karkat liked to keep the appearance of his jimmies being in a constant state of rustled, he really was a humongous sweetheart who passionately cared for the few friends he kept. It was one of many aspects of the troll that John had fallen head over heels in love with. You had to be adept at seeing through his often profane rants and fusses, but once you could, you’d find that there was a sensitive and caring troll underneath. Karkat Vantas was very rough around the edges, but inside he was all caramel nougat. Or...something. Some kind of delightful candy center. Like whatever they make Butterfingers out of. Wow, he was still really quite hungry.

Once he stopped comparing his best friend to candy bars, John realized that there was a very revealing article of clothing sitting on the table for anyone to see. Fully aware that Karkat lived only several blocks away and was usually very prompt on his promises, John shot out of his chair, grabbing his costume and running as best as he could back upstairs. His body gave surprisingly few complaints at his pace, which pleased him enormously. 

Still, time was of the essence. Despite the wish to one day tell Karkat all about how he’d literally rescued the troll’s ass from danger that one time, now did not exactly seem like a great time to break it to him. He was even less prepared to try and pretend he owned a really authentic-looking cosplay or very early Halloween costume of Heir; Karkat would never let him live that down. He’d probably also expect to see John in said costume come October, which would be no good, since he knew for a fact that Karkat could probably spot the real Heir out of an entire crowd of cosplayers with little to no trouble.

Once upstairs and in his room, the practiced motions of securing his costume were easy enough even with his limited range of motion: place clothes on shelf, secure panel against the wall, click in place, spin lock, retrieve key, lock, and re-pin the awesome poster of Captain America over it. And then his secret was once again ironically hidden behind a generic image of a fictitious super-soldier.

After grabbing a light jacket and going through the motions of undoing his sling, sliding on the jacket, and then working the sling back into place, John sat down on his bed with a sigh, estimating that he still had about a minute and a half until his front door received a barrage of knocks that would most likely shake the very foundations of the house. Needless to say, Karkat was not the gentlest of knockers.

While he waited, John absently scanned the walls of his room, taking in the various posters of posing heroes, action movie explosions, and classic 90’s flicks which Karkat affectionately referred to as ‘festering pustules that blemish the face of cinema’. A certain print caught his gaze, as it always did. It was small and humble compared to the others, just like the heroine it depicted: Phantom Maiden.

She wasn’t a big name, as far as heroes went, and she had never really shined brightly in the eyes of the media, but she had been John’s favorite up until he was about ten. John had liked her for her early mishaps, her dedication to duty that sometimes appeared to have bordered on obsession, and the pride she expressed whenever a camera was pointed at her.

Unlike most of the other heroes that John had admired in his youth, Phantom Maiden had been real, and had been known for her willingness to never give up in the face of adversity. There weren’t many people as selfless as she had been on the field, or as ready to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. It was that quality which had captured John’s imagination, and a large contributing factor to why he had wanted to be a hero when he got older. Despite not possessing a single superpower, PM had gone up against bad guys the likes of which John had never seen, the kind who ran around in costumes and who had perfected the maniacal laughter and secret lair-building to an artform, all while still managing to be legitimately terrifying. She’d been active for almost twenty-five years by the time John turned ten, when she was killed in the line of duty by some no-name mugger whose panicked gunfire managed to catch the aging vigilante in her chest. John still remembered watching the funeral on TV. Despite not being very popular with the media, thousands had shown up for the procession through Atlanta’s streets. The ones whose lives she’d saved.

That had been one of the few moments in his life that he could remember crying in earnest, mourning for the loss of an idol, for an ideal. His father had held him as they watched the funeral procession, letting the small boy weep as he said nothing. John hadn’t cried like that since, not even when venting his frustrations over his romantic life. He’d felt a piece of himself die along with PM that day, and he’d never gotten it back.

His eyes trailed from the small poster to the larger one hanging next to it: a smug troll shrouded in red and black beckoning him closer. Hemogoblin was nothing like Phantom Maiden. Whereas PM had been passionate and given to uplifting speeches about the goodness in people, always staying to offer a smile at the cameras, Hemogoblin was brutally efficient and didn’t hesitate to bring the pain if it meant stopping a crime. He was also flirtatious and more than a bit of a tease, even if he didn’t really mean it. Beyond that, though, John knew that he also had a sweet side. He was sassy and all kinds of kickass, and adorably funny when he wasn’t trying to be, and he _got_ John, even though they’d only known each other briefly. 

His smile was warm as he got up and examined the troll’s cocky grin, bringing his good hand up to touch the one that was beckoning out to him. Phantom Maiden might be gone, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t other real life heroes that John could admire.

The rapid and impatient knocking on the front door violently ripped John out of his musings and caused him to jump where he stood, the wind immediately kicking up inside of his room and tossing a stack of printer paper on his desk all over the place. Once John forced his heart to stop beating a mile a minute, he scowled slightly. He should have been prepared for that; it’s not like Karkat’s knocking habits were a surprise in the least. He was frankly kind of surprised that the troll hadn’t splintered the wood or cracked the door’s paint.

He was halfway down the stairs when he realized that he wasn’t wearing his glasses. With a curse, John hastily decided that Karkat couldn’t see him right now and that keeping him waiting could be bad for both the troll’s health and the front door, so he applied a quick gust of wind to propel himself back up to his room. By the time he jumped the railing and floated downstairs, glasses affixed to his face, the knocks were starting to sound more like hammer strikes, and John was legitimately concerned that Karkat might knock his door down.

He nearly got an armful of troll when he swung the door wide open, the waiting body unsteadily toppling forward before reflexes kicked in and arms were thrown to the side to catch themselves on the frame.

As John looked him over, he had the distinct impression that his earlier assumption that Karkat had probably been lounging around in bed browsing tumblr from his laptop was most likely correct. All of the clothes he was wearing were disheveled, like they’d been hastily thrown on with little to no concern for appearance. He was wearing his Nightwing hoodie over what looked to be the same black turtleneck he had worn the day before, along with a pair of worn grey jeans. The ensemble was topped off with what looked to be a mismatched pair of socks peeking out from the hems of his jeans. His hair was also a bit more messy than usual, a few tufts sticking out at odd angles here and there. All in all, John rated it “bedhead look, 9/10, would kiss senseless.” Not that he would ever pass up the opportunity to make out with Karkat, regardless of how he looked.

Karkat’s eyes seemed to have locked on to the sling like a homing laser in about two nanoseconds after he opened the door, so John thought the best tactic might be to go for cheery. Not that he had to fake it, what with his best friend and crush standing before him. “Hi, Karkat!”

The troll’s eyes were wide as they stared at the sling for a few long moments before they started searching up and down John’s body, attempting to catalogue any and every injury he might have. John felt himself beginning to blush slightly under the troll’s scrutiny, but he fought it down valiantly. Karkat would probably think he had a fever and demand he get to bed, if he noticed.

It took an entire second after his observations were complete for Karkat to launch into a rant, an impressive amount of restraint, by the troll’s standards.

“Jesus fuck, John, I can’t leave you alone for a goddamn moment without you injuring yourself, can I? How in the hell did you manage to survive life this long without me? I swear to all that is holy, if I have to wrap you in bubblewrap and keep you locked in your room all day so that you don’t accidentally self-terminate, I will.”

John smiled and nodded as Karkat’s rant continued and the troll started flitting around, examining his body from both the back and the front, as if he hadn’t already looked there yet, making such a large fuss that John thought the term “mother hen” had never been more applicable than it was now. With how much time they’d spent together, John was well-versed enough in Karkat-ese to detect the genuine concern and alarm just barely hidden under his acerbic tone as he worked himself into a spitting rant about John’s lack of self preservation. John would say the display was adorable, if not for the fact that he was clearly causing his friend some actual distress. As soon as Karkat stopped for a breath, John reached out with his good hand and grasped Karkat’s shoulder softly, causing the troll to stop in his tracks.

“Karkat, it’s okay. It’s just a sprain. Or, well, a hairline fracture, actually,” he reassured him, even though the troll didn’t exactly look assured after that explanation.

Karkat’s eyes narrowed, though his body language did suggest that he was a lot more relaxed now that he had an assurance that John wasn’t about to keel over from ebola or something. John didn’t miss the way that he leaned into his hand, either. “And how, exactly, did you manage a hairline fracture?”

John reluctantly let the troll’s shoulder go as he brought his hand to scratch the back of his head, doing his best to sell the lie he had practiced in his head. It didn’t hurt that he was genuinely anxious about his friend’s reaction when he let out a nervous chuckle. “I sort of...slipped at the pool while trying to get in some early morning practice on my own. They really mean it when they tell you not to run around those!” Karkat’s wide-open mouth and disbelieving eyes almost made John start laughing, but he figured that probably wouldn’t be received well, so he bit his tongue and tried to pull off a look of extreme penitence.

“You ‘sort of slipped’ while running around a pool. You have got to be shitting me. Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” John’s eyes widened, but thankfully, Karkat wasn’t done. “Wait, don’t answer that, because it’s so mind-chaffingly idiotic to blatantly disregard a warning that every fucking person who has ever been even in the general proximity of a pool has ingrained into their minds that, of course, that’s exactly what you did, because you are genuinely mentally impaired. Were you attempting to prank your future self, or was that decision just your usual gross negligence for the blatantly obvious?”

John couldn’t hold back the grin this time as he responded, “I’d like to think it was a bit of both.”

He could literally see the flickering emotions flitting about Karkat’s face, and it was fascinating to watch. He seemed to be caught in a battle between wanting to scream at John for his supposed negligence and wanting to cradle him in his arms and protect him from the rest of the big, bad, mean world that clearly wasn’t prepared for someone of his stupidity, and it was doing some really interesting things to the troll’s facial muscles. John decided to stop him before he gave himself an aneurysm.

“It’s not important, Karkat. It happened, I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m on the road to recovery. But in order for me to get better, I require nourishment, and seeing as how my dad had to go to work, that means I am completely reliant on you, as I so often am, because you are the vastly superior intelligence in this friendship and I am but a lowly worm. So can we _please_ go get some food now?”

He could tell by the way that the corner of Karkat’s mouth twitched that the troll was trying very hard not to smile. He really wished he wouldn’t fight it, because seeing Karkat’s smile sounded like amazingly effective medicine right about now.

“Well. I’m glad you are at least capable of recognizing your own position in this friendship. I have the brains, I have the car, and so I wear the pants in the relationship.”

John dipped at the waist and bent a knee, sweeping his right arm out as best he could in a mock bow. “It is as you say. I am a slave to your whims, oh mighty Vantas.”

This time the twitching of the troll’s mouth was significant enough to allow for a half smile to show, and just as John had suspected, it totally made him feel better. “Damn right, you are. Now get your fat ass in my car before I change my mind.”

“Right away, sir!” John saluted, turning to lock the door behind them. As he made his way to Karkat’s car, he mused, “I’m in the mood for something greasy. Something dripping with cheese. Something that would make my dad re-evaluate our friendship.”

Karkat scoffed as he opened the driver’s side door, throwing John his best ‘no shit?’ look. “So, the usual it is, then?”

///

Twenty minutes later saw Karkat pulling haphazardly into the parking garage in front of one of their favorite pizza joints, Naked Pizza*. John’s stomach was gurgling in anticipation as soon as they got out of the car and were assaulted by the smells of the restaurants around them, the stupid thing acting like he hadn’t even sacrificed two humongous sandwiches to appease its wrath a mere half an hour ago. Karkat chose not to comment on the noises beyond raising a delicate eyebrow in his direction, but other than that, the troll was treating him like he was made of glass. He’d placed a steadying hand on John’s shoulder when they descended the parking garage’s stairs, and had even gone so far as to hold the door open for him at the pizzeria. John hadn’t felt this pampered since his last birthday, when his father had allowed him the night off from patrols and taken him out to a lavish, thoroughly unhealthy dinner.

The lunch crowd had already diminished quite a bit by then, so they were able to place their orders at the counter immediately upon entering. John, following the philosophy “go big or go home,” ordered a 14” Bacon Bacon pizza with extra bacon, because his stomach was in the mood for grease. Karkat, to his slight distaste, ordered a Smoked Salmon pizza, and John idly wondered if fish on pizza was a troll thing. Karkat ordered that pretty much every time they came here, but John, human food vacuum that he was, never found it particularly palatable. That didn’t stop him from offering to pick up Karkat’s bill as thanks for driving him, but the troll vehemently refused on the grounds that he “didn’t feel comfortable taking food money from a cripple,” causing John to roll his eyes pretty much harder than he had ever rolled them before. He loved Karkat, but man, what a drama queen.

Their orders placed, John let Karkat lead them to the section that they normally tried to sit near, a point equidistant between the soda fountain and the large TV mounted on the wall. It was with no small amount of unease that he noted that the TV was tuned to the same news channel he had been watching earlier at home, and that they were still covering that morning’s bombing. As they neared, John did his best to ignore the broadcast, but he wasn’t very successful as he found his eyes pulled towards the screen.

After he was forced to wait for Karkat to pull out his chair for him, he was expecting the troll to complain about his lack of attention, but, looking over, he noticed that he wasn’t the only one whose attention had been grabbed by the news. Karkat had pulled another chair up to sit directly to John’s right in what was probably the first time he’d ever seen the troll _not_ opt to sit across from him, but he had yet to take his seat. He was still standing, just as John was, except his hand was gripping the back of his selected chair tightly enough to cause his knuckles to turn white. A bit alarmed at the intensity in his friend’s stare, John pivoted his full attention to the television as it blared a “breaking news” graphic.

“That’s right, Thomas,” he heard, having to strain his one good ear to hear over the din of the restaurant. He idly noted that it was still the same anchor and reporter team from earlier. “We are in fact starting to get new details from the police in regards to the other bombing that occurred last night in the Warehouse district.”

John felt like the floor had just dropped out from him as he, too, gripped onto the back of his chair. This could be it. This could be the moment that he was declared a fugitive of the law, and his life would change forever. He was suddenly extremely glad for Karkat’s earlier assistance with his chair, as he found that he might not have had the energy to pull it out himself as he dropped into it bonelessly.

“Investigators at the scene of the warehouse explosion have uncovered what they believe to be a human-sized impact crater on a nearby building, that they are now attributing as belonging to Heir. This corroborates several eyewitness accounts that place the hero in the area at the time of the incident. We have no news yet on whether this crater is a contributing factor as to why neither Heir nor Hemogoblin were present on the scene at the Waterfront shootout, but there is speculation that Heir would have been hard-pressed to walk away from such an impact uninjured. We’ve talked with several medical experts, who—”

_Wait, what the hell?_

John vaguely registered the sound of Karkat’s heavy, metal chair scraping against the floor as the troll slid into it, but he paid him no mind, too busy trying to work out what he had just heard.

How in the ever-loving fuck had they come to the conclusion that he and Hemogoblin hadn’t been at the shootout last night? There was literally _no_ way that the crime scene investigators could miss all of that evidence, like the lack of any bodies besides the Midnight Crew, or the caved in chest cavity on one of the thugs in the distinct impression of a giant hammer. There was _no way_. A nagging voice in the back of John’s mind reminded him that all of the key witnesses were now probably dead, consumed in the precinct blast, but that would have done nothing to erase the actual physical evidence at the scene. His mind working on overdrive, there were only two immediate conclusions he could come up with to explain this.

Either the police were withholding information from the press in order to lull him into a false sense of security and set the heroes up for an ambush, or something, or else he was witnessing a cover-up. He didn’t think the first option was very likely, but he couldn’t for the life of him understand _how_ or _why_ someone would go through all of the trouble to cover up his and Hemogoblin’s involvement. It’s not like it would take just one cop hiding some evidence in order to pull this off, either; it would have taken the concerted efforts of _dozens_ of officers and investigators in a massive conspiracy. He knew he had racked up quite a lot of good will with the police department over the years through all of his hard work, and that he had some very blatant admirers fairly high up, but he was equally aware that there were a number of people who would probably jump at the chance to see him arrested for vigilantism. He hadn’t thought he’d had near the amount of support needed to pull something like this off.

John was interrupted from his musing by the sound of a waiter dropping their pizzas in front of them on the table. When he dismissed the troll after being asked if there was anything that they needed, he suddenly realized that he hadn’t been the only one not talking during the entire time he was contemplating the situation. And that was a very un-Karkat-like thing to do.

As he looked over at his companion, he observed several things. First, Karkat’s brows were scrunched up in what was obviously some very deep thought. His eyes also had a sort of far-off, glazed look to them, indicating that wherever his head was, it was miles away from here. His seat was still pushed back, too, meaning that, like John, he had just dropped into his chair and hadn’t bothered to pull it back to the table yet.

While he loved it when Karkat chose to grace him with a smile and absolutely tripped overself whenever he was treated to his friend’s laughter, he didn’t like that look on his face. It was one thing to see the normally boisterous troll concentrating hard while at school, but he’d practically never caught him zoned out like this.

“Uh, Karkat? You okay, dude?”

The troll in question blinked several times before his eyes refocused and he seemed to come back from wherever he was, and John was treated to the rather humorous sight of him looking down at his pizza with clearly no earthly idea how it had just appeared in front of him. He stifled a laugh when Karkat’s gaze settled on him.

“Ah...Ah, yeah. I’m fine. Sorry. I was just lost in thought for a moment. Do you really think Heir was hurt?”

Ohhhhh. So that’s what that was. John turned his head to hide a smirk. Karkat had been worrying about Heir. Honestly, he should have been able to come to that conclusion himself, what with how much Karkat was prone to fanboying his alternate identity. Still, he was touched. It felt really nice to hear the concern in Karkat’s voice, even if he had absolutely no idea that Heir was sitting right in front of him.

“I’m sure he’s fine. I mean, he’s Heir, right? Guy’s been doing the hero thing for years and years. I doubt getting thrown into a wall is going to be the end of him.”

Karkat nodded with gravity, the look of serious concern on his face almost enough to send John into giggles. “You’re probably right. It would take a fucking tank to take him down. Okay, I’m convinced. You want parmesan?”

John blinked at the abrupt change in conversation. “Uh...sure?”

The troll reached over and grabbed the parmesan shaker from the middle of the table and started shaking it out over John’s pizza. “Just tell me when.”

Well, that explained why Karkat wanted to sit next to him instead of across from him, he guessed. He tried not to let it show how absolutely endearing he found Karkat’s frankly unneeded concern. “When.”

He set the shaker down and picked up the pepper shaker. “Pepper?”

John shook his head, a small, warm smile spreading across his face as he fought the incredibly strong desire to reach out and hold the troll’s hand.

The rest of the meal proceeded in much the same fashion, with Karkat doing everything from offering to cut up John’s pizza, to actually offering to hand feed him at one point. John was sorely tempted to take him up on that offer for the sheer novelty of being hand fed by his crush, but he declined because, honestly, Karkat’s mother-henning was a bit ridiculous. He drew a line in the sand at one point during the meal when Karkat actually leaned over and wiped some sauce off of John’s mouth with his own napkin, just as nonchalantly as you please, and then went on prattling about how much of a wriggler John was, and about their next assignment in Biology.

“Okay, seriously, Karkat, shush,” he murmured, turning so that he could reach over and pap the back of Karkat’s right hand with his own. He steadfastly ignored the way that his heartbeat sped up just from that friendly touch. “You don’t need to baby me like this. It's not like I'm incapable of using my right hand, Karkat. I’m fine, I promise.”

To John’s ultimate surprise, Karkat didn’t react with the vitriol he had expected, but instead turned his hand over and grabbed onto John’s as his entire body turned to more squarely face the human, his other hand coming up to cup the outside of the other’s so that his hands were sandwiching John’s, his rusty eyes seeking out John’s blue.

Okay, yeah, there was absolutely no quelling the blush that now spread across John’s cheeks, but Karkat either didn’t notice or didn’t deem it worthy of comment.

“Alright, no, John. If I can’t trust you to follow basic safety principles around a pool – the thing, I remind you, that you are, according to your teammates, at least, supposed to be the ‘Teenaged God’ of – then I am not trusting you around scalding hot marinara sauce and cutlery. So you are going to sit there, shut your big, doofy mouth, and let me take care of you. And if you don’t, so help me, I will spew rage vomit right here and now so forcefully that your eardrums will rupture and you will be forced to wear hearing assistive devices for the rest of your pathetically miserable life.”

“If you say so.” Karkat eyed him warily but, after a brief hesitation, let go of John’s hand and resumed chattering about his opposition to their upcoming biology assignment to dissect a frog.

“While I previously held zero fucks for frogs on account of never having to encounter one in my entire existence, I can say with certainty that, after that lab video detailing exactly what we’ll be doing to the unfortunate little croakbeasts that end up on our dissecting table, I am not a fan. I expect you to...” 

John could feel himself zoning out while he sucked down a glass of Coke, watching Karkat’s lips rather than listening to the words coming from them.

The pounding in his chest that had started when he had touched Karkat’s hand hadn’t died down, and had only intensified when Karkat had returned the gesture. It hadn’t stopped when he’d let go, either, and John could only assume that he was probably still blushing. As Karkat waved a half-eaten slice of pizza around and spoke avidly about frogs or whatever, he was painfully reminded about just how much he cared for his friend. 

He loved him. From the nubby horns that barely managed to poke past choppy, black hair to the little quirks of grey lips that appeared more and more regularly as they grew closer, John loved him. He loved every cranky, weird, passionate, perfect thing about his best friend. There were times when his feelings made him want to lock himself in his room all day and be morose over the things he wouldn’t let himself have, but there were also times like this, when they made him want to fly and shout and arrange the clouds into declarations of his love. Karkat’s romantic side would absolutely love that, he’d wager, even if he would protest and say that it was nothing short of mortifyingly embarrassing for both of them. But that wasn’t a new revelation; he’d known he loved Karkat for a long time, now.

On the other hand, even though he had all of these very apparent feelings for the troll sitting next to him, John couldn’t help but compare them to what he had felt when another troll had similarly sat next to him last night, filling him with equal parts nervous energy and warmth. Though the two were as different from each other as night and day, they both filled him with the same sorts of feelings, and it was confusing the hell out of his poor heart. When Hemogoblin had sat with him outside that warehouse and reached out to carefully hold his hand, John had wanted to give in to the comfort and kiss him so badly. He knew it wouldn’t have been the right time for it, but the urge had been there, regardless. It was the exact same thing he was feeling right now.

Complicating matters was that, compared with how long John had known Karkat before he had been able to put a label on what he was feeling, the _thing_ he felt for Hemogoblin had happened in a ridiculously short amount of time. There was just something special about the other hero. It wasn’t just that the troll knew what it meant to have to hide behind a mask in order to protect those he cared about; it was that, _somehow_ , he and the troll already had a trust that was deep, enough so that they could confide in each other over topics that only the two of them understood: the loneliness, the isolation, the realities of being a hero. Last night had been deeply personal and private, yet it had happened so naturally that John would have thought that Heir and Hemogoblin had been partners for months or years, rather than just a day. They connected. He didn’t know what to do with that connection, but it was still undeniably there.

And _oh lord_ was he attractive.

“John. JOHN. I swear to god, Egbert, have you been listening to a single word that has come out of my mouth, or is sucking on ice really so fascinating that you deemed it more worthy of your attention than me?”

John snapped upright immediately, an intense surge of guilt jolting through his body for thinking about another troll when Karkat was right in front of him. Karkat was giving him the look that told him he was in trouble and had less than thirty seconds to explain himself before it was open call for all kinds of curses and threats that would probably get them banned from the restaurant.

“Sorry!” he said with a laugh, letting his straw fall into his now empty glass. “I kind of zoned out, there. My arm was hurting a bit.” He felt a little depraved for using his injury to get out of hot water like that, but he thought that it was probably worth it when cautious fingers worried gently over his shoulder.

///

Flying while keeping an arm tucked firmly against one side of his body felt a bit strange, but it really wasn’t much of a bother. Regardless of having to keep the limb as immobile as possible, it felt really nice not having the actual sling limiting his range of motion after wearing it all day with Karkat. John had more or less gotten used to having to fight the urge to move it by the time he landed at the designated meeting spot atop the Roosevelt Hotel in downtown Seattle.

The roof was illuminated red by the neon sign sporting the hotel’s name which stretched the length of the building, creating copious amounts of shadow from which to stake out their target. As he landed on top of the giant red ‘R,’ John scanned his immediate surroundings, noting that he was only a few blocks from Pike Place, where Karkat had dragged him after lunch for coffee and tourist-spotting. Turning to the left, he noted the skyscraper overlooking the roof, and wondered idly if anyone would by chance look out their window tonight and spot them.

The wind alerted him to his partner’s presence well before he saw the figure peel himself away from the shadows of the wall surrounding the roof’s staircase. The troll must have had his eyes closed up until that point, because as John looked at him emerging from the darkness, the intensity of his glowing orbs almost took his breath away. They were the same color as the neon sign below him, he noted.

“Heir. You’re right on time,” Hemogoblin spoke as John floated down to him, the troll strolling forward until a mere foot separated them. If he had been anyone else—with the single exception of Karkat—John would have felt the breaching of his personal space to be much too close. In this case, it almost wasn’t close enough. Not when they had huddled hip to hip and shared bittersweet comfort through entwined fingers and lingering glances a single day ago. The fingers of his right hand twitched as he recalled that sensation.

“We had a date. Couldn’t keep you waiting, could I?” His voice came out quiet and low, his tone much closer to his normal speaking voice than he’d meant for it to be. He cleared his throat, doing his best to categorize the smirk that Hemogoblin gave him even as the troll tilted his head slightly at the human’s tone.

“A gentleman, through and through.” Hemogoblin looked away, tilting his head further to glance at the nearly-full moon’s position in the night sky.

He was a sight to behold, with the pale light playing off grey skin backlit by the glow of the Roosevelt’s iconic red sign. When Hemogoblin fixed his attention back on John, he was caught openly staring, though neither of them seemed to mind very much. As he watched, the playfulness inherent in the troll’s smirk faded and was replaced with something more serious.

“Nice night for taking down a major criminal organization.”

John straightened and nodded in reply, physically feeling the shift in the atmosphere between them. They didn’t have time to make eyes at each other; they had a job to do.

“Yeah. Have you been here long?”

Hemogoblin turned and motioned behind him for John to follow. With his partner a step behind, they walked to the edge of the hotel’s roof and lined up side-by-side, where they peered across Pine Street towards Pacific Place. Hemogoblin pointed to an unassuming four story building, nestled between two prominent brand name outlets. John peered at it, squinting slightly to take in everything that he could. There were no signs suggesting a purpose for the building, only dark smudges around where a previous sign had been removed. The storefront windows were covered, but in a way that suggested the space was under renovation.

“I was watching it for about half an hour before you got here. As far as I can tell, the security isn’t very tight. There are a couple of guys on patrol that keep circling the block—they make a circuit every six minutes or so—but no surveillance equipment that I’ve been able to spot. There are two guys on the roof dressed like roofers, but I’ll bet you anything they’re part of the Crew. I mean, really, who does roofing at this time of night? Dumbasses. It’s pointless because of the new curfew, anyway; none of them should be out, regardless of any supposed work to be done.” Once they were pointed out, John watched the two shadows shuffling around the roof, all-in-all doing a poor job at impersonating people who were actually trying to get work done. He could swear one of them was wearing a fancy black hat, but it was hard to make out from here.

“How’re you feeling?” John took his focus off the safehouse and glanced sidelong at Hemogoblin. His tone didn’t immediately register as overly concerned, but the question had come out a bit more rushed than John had been accustomed to the troll talking. A tongue swiped over dark lips, red eyes flickering to John’s face. “I saw the news this afternoon. You didn’t tell me you were already injured before the thing at the Waterfront even went down.”

“I was so banged up already that it didn’t really seem relevant when exactly I was injured. But I’ll be fine as long as I don’t have to do any heavy lifting.” He flexed his arms as if to prove to his partner that it really wasn’t all that bad, despite the fact that he was sporting a fairly serious handicap. He knew he would instinctively guard the injury and favour his right side in a fight, which could be taken advantage of were he to go up against a skilled opponent. “If we get into a close quarters fight, I may need you to watch my left for me, however.”

“Not a problem. I rather like your left; it’s very easy on the eyes.”

John couldn’t stop a sharp laugh from slipping past his lips, because come on, that was like thirteen-year-old pick-up line levels of cheesy. He belatedly covered his mouth, at least able to stifle some very un-heroic giggles from following the initial bark of laughter. Hemogoblin grinned widely as he took in the results of his comment, looking rather pleased with himself as John struggled to regain his composure.

The relaxed atmosphere the quip had caused managed to survive a handful of seconds longer before they wordlessly agreed to turn from each other, their attention fixing back on the building. John slipped a pair of cheap plastic binoculars he’d brought for the occasion from one of the pouches on his belt and started giving the building a once-over in case Hemogoblin had missed any possible surveillance equipment in his earlier observations. He did his best to ignore the not very well hidden looks of curiosity that the troll kept shooting him once he noticed that John had slipped off his ever-present goggles to use the binoculars. At this point, John probably could have been convinced to let his partner see what his face looked like, but this was not the night for unnecessary drama.

A comfortable silence settled between them as they observed their mark. The roofers predictably continued their poor attempt at impersonating late-night construction workers, so John took to scanning the streets to confirm Hemogoblin’s estimate on the ground patrol. Sure enough, two figures—one in the standard black suit that was now expected when dealing with the Midnight Crew, and one with the foresight to dress down to appear less conspicuous—walked down Pine Street and looped the corner of 6th Avenue every six minutes or so. The ruse might have worked had they not been in violation of the city’s newly instated curfew, as Hemogoblin had mentioned. After the pair had disappeared around the corner for the fifth time, John slid his goggles back up and nudged his partner with his right shoulder.

Hemogoblin turned his body slightly to face John’s, though his head remained focused on the building so that he was only looking at John out of the corner of his eye. It seems he needn’t have nudged him, however, because the troll’s words proved he had been watching the same thing.

“That’s five times. Safe to bet they’ll keep that pace. Want to make a move?” 

John nodded, watching as the troll lifted himself into a crouch onto the lip of the roof’s edge before turning towards the fire escape.

“Wait a sec.” John stood and Hemogoblin hesitated, turning to look back at him with a curious tilt of his head. John said nothing as he neared until they were within arm’s reach of each other. He expected the troll to at least flinch a little when he reached out and coiled his right arm around Hemogoblin’s waist, but his partner immediately leaned into it as if he had been expecting the touch. The unexpected acceptance of the contact left John slightly red-faced, but he collected himself quickly and tried not to put any thought into how the troll’s hip felt against his hand. “Let’s do this the quick way.”

With that, John kicked off into the air lightly, the wind catching them both and levitating them several yards above the roof. He didn’t feel the need to remind Hemogoblin that it was totally unnecessary for them to be touching in order for him to transport them both, especially not with the way that the troll had curled his arm around John’s upper back for support. At his unsaid command, they started gently floating up and up, slowly coming to be positioned above their target building.

There was still some danger of being spotted since the lack of cloud cover and the abundance of moonlight did little to mask their presence in the sky, but John was comforted by the almost unnatural amounts of heat radiating off of Hemogoblin’s body, in direct contrast to the chill permeating the air. When they were directly over the roof, he halted their progress. “Hold on tight. I’m going to aim for the cover in the back.”

Hemogoblin nodded and curled into John’s grasp even tighter, turning so that their bodies were facing. He almost started regretting having given the troll the impression that they needed to be touching, because he was suddenly finding it incredibly hard to concentrate with the troll’s body pressed up against his. Sensing his slight discomfort, the wind wrapped them up in a warm breeze, ruffling both of their hoods.

With a sigh, John cut the wind supporting them to almost nothing and they rocketed downwards, Hemogoblin’s grip tightening on him even harder. Their descent started slowing as they neared the roof of the four story building, so that by the time they touched down into shadows, they landed with nary a whisper, the concentrated wind around their feet dissipating into nothing more than a gentle breeze. They observed the two would-be roofers standing less than fifteen yards away, thankfully completely unaware of their presence. John only remembered to let go of Hemogoblin when he felt lean muscles of wire and whipcord tense under his fingertips, anticipating a fight.

There was a light tap on his shoulder before lips lifted to his ear. Steady breaths caressed his skin and drew a shiver throughout John’s body. A whisper followed, low and sultry, and offering up far too few words. “You take the right.”

Forcing himself to focus, John surged forward with Hemogoblin sticking close to his side. Following his partner’s instructions, John ignored his left and broke for the gangster to his right. He rushed forward and struck with his elbow high, making contact with the back of his target’s head. The blow rendered the man unconscious in an instant. As John reached out to steady and lower the now boneless body, he turned his head just in time to witness the elegant curve of Hemogoblin’s body as he twisted, lashing out with a brutal snap-kick to the temple of his “roofer,” who had just turned to investigate what the noise she just heard was. Needless to say, the woman dropped without so much as a groan spilling past her lips.

The heroes dragged the fallen into the shadowed area where they had waited, out of the view of anyone who might happen to look down from the hotels across the street. They now had less than five minutes before the patrol made their loop and noticed their comrades were no longer at their posts. Just in case either of the two sentries regained consciousness before they were through, John went about zip-tying their hands and ankles together. As he was doing this, Hemogoblin withdrew a small roll of duct tape from one of his two side pouches—a red that matched his costume’s crimson, John noted with amusement—and slapped a piece over the mouth of each of them.

Hemogoblin hesitated before the door at the corner of the building, hand resting over the handle. Beyond would be a set of stairs, and beyond that...they didn’t know. Something or someone was being guarded here, even if the surveillance was a little lacking for anything of great importance. The fact that it was patrolled at all indicated that _something_ was here, however. A shudder ran through John’s body as he considered, not for the first time, that this could be a trap and that the Midnight Crew was one step ahead of him again.

“Wait,” he murmured, putting a hand on top of Hemogoblin’s before he could turn the handle. “Let me.”

Hemogoblin said nothing as he stepped back and John took his place. He knew that they only had a handful of minutes to work with, but if there was one thing that his father had drilled into his head time and time again, it was that you always took the time to be cautious. Rushing in was a great way to get your ass blown up.

As John pressed his body against the door, he closed his eyes and stilled, seeking out his connection with the wind. He found it as easily as he always did, pulsing and ready for his command, hidden just under the surface of his mind. With a long exhale, John condensed the wind and pressed it gently against the door, letting its probing tendrils find and penetrate its edges. As it spread out beyond the door and flooded the stairwell, he gave it a single command: _Search_.

A few seconds later on the other side of the door, John opened his eyes and inhaled again, his body relaxing. When he turned back to look at Hemogoblin, the troll was staring back with an eyebrow raised. With a slight stirring of embarrassment, John realized that he hadn’t explained what exactly it was he was doing, and how weird that had probably looked. “It’s all clear. No booby traps.”

“Ah. Heir…” he trailed off, the face that was seconds ago smiling in bemusement settling into something with more determination. “I know I said I’d watch your side for you, but I think it may be better for us to split up. We don’t know what’s waiting for us inside. If we approach this from two different angles, whoever’s inside will be split between us. If you take the stairs and work your way down, I’ll enter from the first floor and work my way up. Then we meet in the middle.”

John only hesitated for a second before he nodded, understanding that now that he had a partner, he could employ different tactics in situations like this.

Hemogoblin offered him an exaggerated wink and a toothy grin, before he murmured, “See you in a few,” and then he was off, sticking close to the shadows as he ran to the fire escape and bounded over the roof’s edge without hesitation.

John stared after where the troll vanished for a moment before he set his own face into a look of determination, readjusted his goggles, and wrenched the door open, throwing himself down the stairs in a single leap.

The fourth floor appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, mostly deserted. The stairwell opened up into a long, dark hallway, with numerous doors on either side of the hall leading to various rooms. At the end of the hall, the floor seemed to branch to both the right and to the left, delineating paths around the floor’s offices.

As John made his way down the hall, he turned his body so that he was leading with his right and did his best to boost his senses as much as possible. There was light ahead around the first bend in the hallway, the air carrying quiet chatter to his good ear. As he listened, he was able to make out two distinct voices, though what they were discussing was anyone’s guess. When he was close enough to peek, John placed his shoulder against the wall and slowly stuck his neck out until he could just barely see into the next hallway.

The glance around the corner lasted less than a second, but it was enough to see his opponents. There were three of them, not two, all of them leaning up casually against the wall next to an office about six yards from his position. The two humans and one troll were uniformly tall and well-built, with the kind of dull look to them that just screamed “thug.” In the brief moment he’d had to take in the scene, John’s trained eyes had spotted the telltale bulges of pistol holsters amongst two of them behind their black jackets, with the human on the left’s holstered on his waist in plain sight. Considering he had surprise on his side, this would be a piece of cake.

Gathering the wind up around him, John sank low before he broke from cover and dashed around the corner, covering the distance between himself and the thugs in an instant. The only warning the thugs received came from the soft patters of his shoes against the wood floor, but by then, it was already too late. With a push from his left leg and a boost from the wind, John propelled himself forward so that when he threw a vicious jab with his right arm at the throat of the just-turning troll, he went down, hard, gasping for air. In almost perfect synchronization with his strike, John shifted his center of gravity low and swept back with a high kick that caught the nearest human in the chin, knocking his head back sharply against the wall. The remaining thug had just enough time to start pulling out his gun when John pivoted and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him down just as he brought his own knee up, catching him in the chin.

It was over in less than five seconds.

After checking to make sure he hadn’t collapsed the troll’s windpipe, John bound their hands and feet with zipties like he had the two sentries on the roof. Adrenaline singing through his veins, he took a moment to center and calm himself, once again boosting his senses to their maximum. He didn’t sense anyone else on this floor, but underneath him, he could just vaguely make out...was that music?

As he made his way down the next stairwell to the third floor, the muffled sounds of music became louder and louder, until the notes started picking up some definition. When he cracked open the door to the third floor, the music suddenly surrounded him, the jaunty tune of Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” – one of his father’s favorites – almost jarring in the way that the crooner’s hopeful tones contrasted with the grave seriousness of the situation. It actually caused him to pause for a few moments as he listened, caught off guard.

Still, there was no time to waste, so John darted out into the hallway once he made sure there was nobody in his direct path. He could tell that the music was coming from a room midway down the hall since that was the only room which had light pouring out of the glass pane in its door, but he didn’t want to investigate before clearing the rest of the area, just in case whatever or whoever was in that room required his full attention. With any luck, Hemogoblin would be making his way up soon, and they could investigate together. As he stalked down the hallway, checking each room as he passed, John kept the wind coiled tight around himself, ready to lash out at anyone who got in his path.

It turned out that his caution was unnecessary, however, because the entire floor seemed to be deserted. The only signs of life were coming from the room with the music, which, now that he was nearing its door, also seemed to contain the sounds of someone humming. Someone male, if the pitch was anything to go by.

Once he was close enough to peek through the door’s small glass window, it was with a little bit of surprise that he found that there was only one occupant in the room. The short, squat man appeared to be of either Asian or Polynesian descent, with his dark hair and tanned skin, and somewhat ovaline eyes. He was dressed in the usual Midnight Crew garb of a tailored black suit, but instead of the fedora, he seemed to be sporting some kind of headgear whose sole function appeared to be to provide magnification for whatever it was he was focusing on, like the kind someone might wear were they working on very delicate electronics or jewelry. All in all, he looked fairly unassuming for a Midnight Crew member, but John wasn’t going to put any stock in that.

The man was seated at a workbench and appeared to be soldering something, though what, exactly, John couldn’t say. Most of his view of the room was obscured because of the angle with which he was forced to look through the window.

With no signs of Hemogoblin and only one opponent, John figured that he might as well go for it, and slowly started to inch the door open so as to hopefully catch the man unawares. If he was able to get the man alone, it would be possible for them to interrogate him, and see if they could find out the safe house’s actual purpose.

The door had been opened about three feet when John’s hand abruptly stilled as if he’d been electrified. Now that he was able to actually see into the room properly, his keen mind processed as quickly as possible what it was he was actually looking at, and the realization stole his breath away: explosives. The room was full, floor to ceiling, with explosives. Against one wall stood a stack of clear plastic oil drums, each full of some kind of liquid – volatile, if the stickers plastered to the sides were telling the truth. The other wall was lined by workbenches, upon which rested all kinds of devices in various states of disassembly. There were wires and circuit boards, gallon jugs filled with ball bearings and nails, and even a rack of...were those fucking _claymore mines_?

John’s surprise must have been audible, because the man suddenly looked up from his work and to the door, where he went stock-still and stared at the oddly-dressed teenager in front of him. John noted with detachment how atypical to the Midnight Crew image the man was, with a face that was full and round, and very obvious laugh lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. The fact that he had his mouth hanging wide open didn’t lend well to the image, either.

The silence between them stretched on for a few awkward seconds, during which the record player behind them ran its course and the dulcet tones of Sinatra faded to be replaced by static. The man hadn’t made any hostile gestures yet and appeared in no hurry to do so, so John raised a hand slowly in greeting, the Midnight Crew member’s gaze following the appendage. “Uh. Hello?”

The silence broken, the man’s eyes suddenly widened and he jumped from his stool, sending it crashing to the ground as he stumbled back. As he did so, the man pulled something from his coat pocket, something with a long handle a single red button at the end of it. “Stay back!”

John gave the door a gentle push and let it softly swing the rest of the way open, and it was only then that he got a good eyeful of the gangster’s entire person. Including the vest of explosives strapped to his chest, with a coiled wire leading up to what he could now identify as a detonator in the man’s hand. _Well, crap_.

With his hands slowly raising to show that he was unarmed, John took an even slower step into the room, doing his best to exude _calm_ and _non threatening_. “Stay back, or I press this button and take you and this entire block out with me! They said I could blow up anything if I needed to if you showed up here, including myself! In fact, Slick strongly suggested I do that.” His expression softened from the fierce glare it had just been to a slight frown. “Or was it Droog?”

John had no idea if he’d be able to survive a blast from this close, wind barrier or no, but he suspected not. And he wasn’t the only one to be worried about, either, as thoughts of Hemogoblin working his way up from the lower levels flitted through his mind.

“I’m sorry,” John tried, keeping his hands up in a completely passive gesture. “I don’t think you need to resort to that. See?” He carefully drew Casey from his back, laying her down to his right side as he took a cautious step forward and away from the weapon. “No hammer.”

“I’m not an _idiot_. I know you can shoot me with...with the wind. Boxcars told me,” he muttered, taking the opportunity to drop the optical headgear onto a table, the detonator never leaving his hand. That got John’s attention. If this man communicated with Boxcars directly, chances were that he was actually a somebody in the organization. Assuming he wasn’t about to be turned into ash, they might be able to get significant intel from this guy. It was worth the try, in any case. Now he just had to try and get the man to calm down, and not violently explode them both.

“But I’m inside. I can’t use the wind indoors.” That was an absolute lie, of course, because even swaying his hand back and forth gently would produce a soft breeze that could be manipulated into a typhoon, but the man hopefully didn’t know that. As if to reinforce his thoughts, the wind tightened itself around him even further, layering itself in invisible armor around his body, not that it would do much good if that trigger was pressed.

The diminutive gangster cocked his head, considering the words for a time, before nodding slowly to himself. John cautiously took a small step forward, but came up short as the Crew member held up his hand and wiggled the detonator threateningly, his thumb hovering just over the red button. “Don’t!”

John was just contemplating what his next move would be when, out of his peripheral vision, he caught subtle movements coming from the opposite side of the room. There was another door there, he realized, likely leading to another room emptying into the hallway he’d already checked, and it was being opened slowly and carefully, inch by inch. There was only one person that John could think of that would be entering the room like that, and his suspicions were confirmed when, moments later, a blood-red horn peeked its way through the open crack of the door, followed by a hood and a familiar face.

John cleared his throat, hoping to keep the thug’s attention affixed on himself as he shifted his body a bit so that both of them were in his direct line of vision. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’m not going to do anything. I promise. What’s your name?”

A look of stony concentration was on Hemogoblin’s face as he crept fully inside the room now, inching his way towards the short man with the kind of grace that John had only seen from professional ballet dancers, the troll seemingly in charge of every single one of his muscles. He did his best to silently erect a wind barrier against the troll’s body, as well, just in case whatever he was planning didn’t work out like he hoped. Again, he wasn’t sure that it would matter, but some protection was better than no protection. 

The small man looked back at John with some slight apprehension, though his body relaxed noticeably. “It’s Clubs Deuce. Everyone just calls me Deuce. Well, Slick calls me ‘Shithead’ a lot, but that’s just because he likes to play around.”

Hemogoblin was almost in position, now, and John couldn’t help the way that his body tensed in anticipation, ready to throw out every ounce of power he had if things went south. “Uh huh. I’m Heir, Deuce. It’s nice to meet you. Do you really want to blow up? That would kind of suck, wouldn’t it?”

Deuce didn’t get a chance to respond, because at that moment, Hemogoblin entered within striking range, the troll’s entire body tensed like that of a feline predator as he crouched low. Just when John thought he was going to pounce, however, his partner blinked his expressive eyes a few times, and then his stance relaxed completely. He stood up straight and huffed, the noise causing Deuce to jump. “Oh, you have _got_ to be shitting me.”

John had no time to question his partner’s actions because as soon as Deuce heard him speak, his thumb slammed down onto the detonator. John’s instinctive reaction was to throw himself backward towards the door in an effort to put as much space between himself and the explodey thing, the flaring pain of his collarbone as he smacked into the floor ignored as he opened up the floodgates of his power and sent everything he had to reinforce the barriers he’d placed around himself and Hemogoblin.

But nothing happened. Hemogoblin remained standing where he was, looking decidedly unimpressed with everything.

Deuce, opening his squeezed eyes to discover that he was not currently dead, looked down at the detonator in confusion, bringing it up to his face before he started pressing the button repeatedly, still to no effect.

When nothing happened after a few seconds, John cautiously got up from his prone position, the luminous glow fading from his eyes as he cut the power to the barriers. Hemogoblin let out another sigh before he cocked his hips and pointed at the man’s back.

“It helps if you arm it first, moron.” Then he fired off a stationary snap kick at the man’s head with no further warning, rotating in place so that he finished in the same position he had kicked from.

There was a tense moment as Deuce slumped forward where John worried that the impact with the ground might jar the explosives he was wearing, but Hemogoblin had apparently had the same concern, because he caught the man with one hand under his left armpit and hoisted him up as he started unzipping his vest.

While he was doing that, John steadied himself, not prepared for the sudden weariness that struck his body, a side effect of having drawn on so much of his power so quickly without preparation. When he was a little more confident in himself, he picked Casey back up and secured her carefully, feeling altogether unsure of how he should take the bizarre situation that had just occurred.

On one hand, that had been the single most tense moment of his life, comparable to the other night when he’d faced a Midnight Crew firing squad head on with only the wind to protect him. On the other hand… _what the fuck was that?_

When he turned to examine Hemogoblin’s work, he found the troll holding the vest up at eye height so that John could inspect it. There was a look somewhere between exasperated and amused on his partner’s face as he rotated the vest to show him what he had seen when he had approached the now unconscious human. What he saw made John literally facepalm.

Right in the middle of the vest was a carefully labeled “ON/OFF” switch, clearly toggled towards the “OFF” position.

That was literally the dumbest thing John had ever seen in his life. This was _stupid_.

“Are you shitting me?” John asked, dropping his hand slowly.

The half-grin on his partner’s face stretched now into something bordering on mirthful, as he no longer hid his amusement. “Right?”

John shook his head slowly, in complete disbelief of the situation. “No, seriously, is this a joke? This is the dumbest thing I have ever encountered, like, _ever_. Who puts a goddamn activation switch _on the middle of their back_? There’s no possible way he could have reached that without taking it off first. Are we sure this guy is Midnight Crew?”

Hemogoblin snorted, walking over to one of the workbenches and unceremoniously draping the vest over it. “Well, he’s wearing the suit, so, I guess?” With that said, the troll leaned over and pressed his hand to a map of the city taped to the wall, looking over some of the handwritten notations sprawled there, a smile still on his face.

John shook his head in bewilderment, turning to look again at the unconscious thug. “So dumb. Anyway, have any trouble downstairs?”

Without turning to face him, Hemogoblin made a noncommittal hum. “Not really. Took out eight guys between here and the first floor, but they were all pushovers. You?”

“There were only three upstairs. I doubt they were expecting someone to enter from the roof. What about the patrol? You spot them?”

The troll nodded, shifting to look at John after apparently not finding anything of importance in the map. “They came by once but didn’t notice anything amiss. We should have about five minutes before they make it back around.”

John sighed, pulling out a stool from behind one of the benches before unceremoniously binding Deuce to it. “In that case, we better get started. You want lookout or interrogator? Something tells me we’re not exactly going to have to twist any fingers to get this guy talking. He doesn’t seem like the sharpest tool in the shed, if you catch my drift.”

Hemogoblin laughed softly, already walking towards the door. “I had the interrogation last time, so I’ll take lookout. I’ll let you know when the patrol makes their next pass around, and we can decide what to do with them then. Just holler if you need me back here.” And with that, he was gone.

Deuce didn’t look like he’d be waking up anytime soon without assistance, so John reached into one of his pouches and withdrew a packet of smelling salts. After breaking the seal, he thrust the packet under the mobster’s nose, which had the desired effect of causing him to jump awake with a small shout, the stool his arms were tied to rattling.

He took a few moments to look at the appendages in confusion, before looking up at John with wide, confused eyes. “Ow. What hit me? Did I trip? And why did you tie me up?”

John stared. Something told him this interrogation would be a _lot_ easier than the one Hemogoblin had conducted. “Um. Well, my partner hit you, no, you didn’t trip, and seriously? You tried to kill us. Of course we tied you up.”

Deuce scrunched his nose and made to move his right arm, apparently forgetting that it was currently immobile. “Okay, I guess that makes sense. But I’m not trying to blow either of us up right now, so I think you may be overreacting.” As John watched, the man’s expressive face shifted from a look of consternation to a look of open awe, making him raise a questioning eyebrow. “Ooh, you said partner? So there really _are_ two of you? Boxcars said there were two, but I wasn’t sure if he was just pulling my leg. That’s really awesome! I really love heroes!”

John was starting to get the impression that Deuce might not realize that he was the bad guy.

“I mean, I used to really love them when I was a kid. I even had Writ Keeper and Adored Sovereign sign a comic for me, once! But that was forever ago. I still keep track of heroes, you know, just as a bit of fun between jobs.”

“Right,” John muttered, wondering what exactly someone like _this_ was doing working for an organization like the Midnight Crew. Working fairly high up, too, if the clubs pin attached to his lapel was any indication. The only other time he’d seen that had been on Boxcars.

“So you’re Heir, right? And the other one is...Hemoglobin?” There was something innocent in the way that Deuce cocked his head in curiosity, and John was struck again by the incongruity of someone like this being in the Midnight Crew.

“Hemogoblin,” he corrected distractedly.

“Oh! I get it, I think. Boxcars said Hemoglobin, so I’ll have to tell him he was wrong. He’ll sound stupid if he keeps saying the wrong name, especially around Slick. Slick is always telling me he hates stupid people.”

John doubted the man heard that phrase by coincidence. “What exactly do you do for the Midnight Crew?” While he had his suspicions, Deuce’s apparent lack of intelligence was making him doubt himself.

“Oh, I make the bombs!” There was a gleam in his eye as Deuce launched into an energetic explanation of his job description, the smile on his face only growing as he shared his enthusiasm. The more he spoke, the more John’s stomach seemed to sink. “All of them. I’m the best at it, you see. Droog has tried to have me replaced, but he can’t since there’s no one who can make ‘em like I do. **BOOM**!” The sudden exclamation was paired with fingers splaying against the stool’s seat, doing their best to convey an explosion. “They don’t let me take many breaks since there are so many bombs to make, but I _love_ seeing them explode. Like the one at the police station this morning! That was great. I didn’t get to detonate that one – Slick did that – but I placed the explosives since I know where to put them to make the whole place go up. You should’ve _seen_ it, like, **KERBLAM** , then all that fire! It’s too bad that we lost some suits, but there are always more.”

John took a moment to ground himself and to try and separate what he was feeling inside from the stoic persona he needed to be projecting if he wanted to continue getting information. Sitting in front of him was the man who had recently made his life a living hell, who had in the course of just a few nights caused more death and property destruction than John had seen in the past five years of heroing _combined_ – innocently smiling like he had done nothing wrong. Because to him, he apparently _hadn’t_ thought he’d done anything wrong. The loss of life was completely inconsequential to this man. John’s tongue felt sticky and heavy inside his suddenly dry mouth.

“Who is it that you work for? You mentioned a Droog? And Slick?”

“Well, Boxcars, Slick, and Droog all boss me around, but only Slick and Droog are my actual bosses. They’re kind of mean sometimes, but really, they’re great! They let me choose my own hat, though I couldn’t have the same one as either of them. It’s hanging on the wall over there, if you want to see it.” John really didn’t. “I have a few different ones, since it’s fun, but they don’t know about that. You won’t tell, will you?”

The words flowed from his mouth easily, though they felt like ash as they left his tongue. The man in front of him disgusted him on a basic level, but he was their best lead and he seemed receptive to friendly conversation. “Of course not. They certainly won’t hear it from me. If I wanted to find Slick and Droog, where would I look?”

“Oh, they mostly stay at The Grey Ladies down on 1st Avenue South, just past...Edgar...Drive? Sorry, I can’t remember. It has a flashy white, neon sign, so it’s pretty hard to miss. I don’t think you’re old enough to go in there, though. It’s a... gentlemen's club, you know, with _dancers_.” It was almost amusing to see the way that Deuce curled his fingers into air commas around the stool at the word “dancers,” but John was far past the point of finding amusement in his antics any longer.

He fished out his phone, intent on calling the police in and advising them to bring as many bomb disposal units as they could possibly muster. He’d already started dialing when the door to the room burst open and Hemogoblin strolled in, a female troll with bound wrists slung across his back in a fireman’s carry. He dumped her onto the floor next to Deuce’s stool without ceremony.

John’s finger hesitated to hit the send button, rather thrown off by the abrupt entry of his partner. “Uh. Hey?”

Hemogoblin offered him a confident smirk. “Sorry to interrupt. I got bored waiting for the patrol up here so I decided to just go downstairs and wait near the entrance. Took ‘em down as soon as they set foot in the building.”

“Okay...so, what’s with her?”

The troll rolled his shoulders, pushing his chest forward in a stretch. “I figured you might like someone to corroborate whatever you get out of this guy, and she was the lightest.”

John nodded, bringing his right hand up to scratch at his head beneath his hood. “That makes sense. I’m pretty sure Deuce here has been speaking the truth, though. He’s not exactly the crafty type.”

Hemogoblin snorted, his gaze resting on the mobster. Deuce, not showing even the smallest amount of situational awareness, offered him a cheery grin. “Hi, Hemoglobin! You hit hard.”

The troll shook his head, his smile slightly diminished. “I can see how you’d get that impression. Did you learn anything helpful, at least?”

John frowned, reaching out and lightly touching his partner’s shoulder. Once he had the troll’s attention, he pointed with his chin and indicated they take a few steps away to talk in private.

“Turns out he’s the Crew’s chief demolitions expert, if what he says is to be believed. I find it a bit hard to swallow since he’s so...dumb, but he claimed responsibility for every bombing the Crew has done yet. I think he’s legit.”

Hemogoblin’s gaze once again shifted to the bound man, who was staring with curiosity at the female troll by his side. “That guy? Takes all kind, I guess. So, do we have a lead on where to hit next?”

John shifted, suddenly somewhat embarrassed though he wasn’t sure why. “Uh, yeah. He says his bosses hang out at a strip club on 1st South. The Grey Ladies. Heard of it?”

“A strip club. Super. No, I’ve never heard of it. I don’t typically go down that far south, so no surprise there.”

John had just opened his mouth to reply when whatever he was going to say was cut off by Deuce.

“Oh, hi, Selora! Sleep well? Haha.”

John turned, his eyes widening as he caught sight of the female troll who was now sitting bolt upright, looking at Deuce in confusion. Their eyes met and the troll’s grew wide before they narrowed, her body tensing in alertness.

His mind went into analytical mode in a flash as he took in all of the pertinent facts. One, she was awake and fully alert. Two, she was rather sharp, if the way she had seemingly taken in her situation in an instant was an indication. Lastly, and most importantly, she’d only had her wrists bound. Her legs were still free.

Both he and the gangster seemed to realize it at the same time, because in the time it took John to pull together enough of a wind to incapacitate her, she was already springing up off of her feet and lunging towards one of the nearby workbenches. The workbenches that she was significantly closer to than either of the heroes.

The first thing that entered his head was that there were all kinds of explosives on those benches, and that things were about to get bad.

When the troll instead grabbed a gun off a bench and leveled it in his direction with unsteady hands, John was confused. Did she honestly think a tiny gun like that could hurt him? Both he and Hemogoblin had faced down an entire firing squad not twenty-four hours ago, and she should’ve been well aware of that.

And then he got a good look at the gun. It wasn’t anything he had ever seen before, which momentarily threw him for a loop. He’d had extensive training on weapon recognition before he’d ever hit puberty, and he had no idea what he was looking at now. Though what she was holding retained the general shape of a pistol, instead of a single, large tube for a barrel, it had what looked like six tiny holes at the end. The body of the gun looked strange, almost fragile, and there was what looked to be a glass vial attached to the top. John narrowed his eyes as he examined the vial in the troll’s shaking hands. It looked to contain a mostly clear liquid, almost like water, but floating among the water was something strange. Something dark red, and stringy.

When Deuce saw what she had in her hands, his entire demeanor changed to one of panic. “Selora, don’t! Droog says that’s still experimental! It’s not ready yet!”

It was Deuce’s cry which made it click in John’s mind. That wasn’t a pistol. It was an injection gun.

A look of grim determination settled on the troll’s face and then the gun was no longer being pointed at the heroes. After half a second of hesitation, the mobster turned the gun in her still bound hands and shoved the barrel against the exposed skin of her neck, and depressed the trigger. The contents of the vial disappeared with a soft hiss, and John was left gaping at her.

He was still gaping when, after a handful of seconds, nothing had happened. It was Hemogoblin who stepped up and took charge, seizing the moment while John hesitated. “Okay, lady. Put that thing down and step away from the table, and this won’t have to get ugly,” he said, one hand held up cautiously as he took a step forward.

While the troll did let the pneumatic gun slip from her fingers to clatter against the floor, it was Deuce who made the next move, as he let out a loud, high-pitched whine and started side-hopping his stool as far away from the troll as he could get.

That typically wasn’t a good sign.

As John watched, the troll let out a gurgle and sank to her knees, before she fell to the ground completely and began to convulse in apparent pain.

He was transfixed by the surreal horror of what followed. What had been smooth grey skin _rippled_ and then her muscles practically _exploded_ , tearing through the fabric of her suit and reducing it to tatters as they bulged and shifted unnaturally. Her restraints were torn through almost instantly, the plastic of the ties snapping like twigs caught in a hurricane. Cobalt blue veins stood out visibly against strained skin as they twitched beneath the surface, desperately trying to cope with a now frantic pulse. When she jerked her head up to look into John’s face, her eyes were wild and unfocused, capillaries bursting until her sclera were bleeding into the same blue of her irises, her pupils blowing out before narrowing into thin slits. All the while, the troll cried in pain, her screams becoming more and more primal the longer her body stretched and shifted and changed into something that seemed to be ripped straight from a nightmare, her form now resembling that of some feral beast more than it did that of a troll. Whereas before she had been a somewhat petite thing, probably weighing not more than a buck twenty-five, she now almost matched John height for height, and didn’t look like she weighed a biscuit under three hundred.

When her body finally stopped its metamorphosis, the only sounds to be heard were Deuce’s pitiful keens and the troll’s heavy, labored breathing. As John stared into the mutated troll’s eyes, what he saw terrified him to the bone. No longer was there a person in those eyes. They revealed no soul, no intelligence, no humanity. In their place was the hunger of a predator, the kind that hunts in the dead of night, the kind that terrorized man’s ancestors in the primeval jungles, the kind of predator that knew not the meaning of mercy.

And it terrified him.

Every instinct John had was screaming at him to flee, to put as much distance between himself and this predator as possible. It wasn’t just his instincts, either. The wind was tugging on his body insistently, either at its own behest or in response to his fear, he knew not which. He didn’t really care at the moment what the reason was. All he knew was that he had to get out of there, and get out of there, fast.

It was Hemogoblin who broke him of his temporary panic. The troll – who was technically standing between himself and this monster because he was about two steps closer than John was – turned slightly, never once taking his vision off the creature in front of him even as he managed to catch John’s eyes with his own. It was the sight of his partner’s luminous eye that broke him of his stupor, as his gaze was drawn like a moth to a flame to examine the rest of the troll’s features. He looked startled, but appeared to be taking it somewhat in stride. When John looked closely, he could tell that the troll’s jaw was clenched tightly, and surmised that he was probably gritting his teeth extremely hard. But he was still facing what was clearly freaking him out, and that gave John the strength to do likewise. After all, Hemogoblin was supposed to be the rookie hero, not him.

And now that he refocused his gaze on the monster the female troll had become, well, she wasn’t really all _that_ scary. He refused to meet her eyes again, but when he looked at her face, he could still tell that she was a troll. She was just a troll hidden underneath a fuckton of deformed muscle and rage. He could deal with that.

Hemogoblin opened his mouth. “Okay, what the fu-”

That was apparently the signal to begin, because the creature let out an absolutely animalistic roar of fury that seemed to shake the entire room. As soon as the roar subsided, she slapped her arms to the ground and kicked off, cracking the wooden panels of the floor and propelling her through the air right towards the heroes like an out of control three hundred pound freight train.

Hemogoblin had the good reflexes to jump out of the way immediately, but John wasn’t as quick. Whereas Hemogoblin’s reaction had been to dodge the danger, John’s first instinct was to immediately concentrate a huge blast of wind into his good hand and to launch it at his attacker.

That part went off without a hitch.

He was completely unprepared for when she shrugged off the attack as if it had been nothing more than a gentle summer’s breeze.

He only had a single moment with which to simultaneously throw up as best a barrier as he could establish and to push himself out of the way, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid a glancing hit to his right shoulder. The barrier was enough to avoid him immediately having his ribs snap inside his chest, but it wasn’t enough to keep him on his feet or to blunt the surge of pain that seemed to resonate throughout his body. He was going to be super pissed if that just broke his other collarbone.

Plowing through John’s body wasn’t enough of a stopping force for the berserk troll, apparently, because she kept on going past him, straight into the wall. She also impacted a workbench, tossing it onto its side and spilling its delicate contents all over the floor.

John tensed slightly as he felt a hand gently grasp his smarting shoulder, but a brief glance down revealed that it belonged to his partner. Hemogoblin helped him to stand, both of them never taking their eyes off of the creature now struggling to extricate itself from the remains of the workbench.

Hemogoblin grimaced. “This is fucking _insane_. We can’t fight in here, because she’s going to set something off and then we’re all going to be having a really, really bad day.”

“Agreed.” John tensed, looking around for options. He barely paid attention to the now unconscious Deuce, who had apparently been knocked cold by a piece of debris. Either that, or he’d fainted. His eyes landed on the door Hemogoblin had first entered from when they’d confronted Deuce, now opposite of where the troll had just pulled free of the wreckage and was shaking herself in fury. “Quick! Through the door!”

They bounded towards the door just as the troll hurled a wooden stool at them like it was a baseball, the furniture shattering into innumerable wooden splinters above their heads.

Once in the next room, John took a half a second to look around. The room was large and dark, the ambient light from the city streaming in through the windows along one wall and casting the entire room in shadows. This room was one he hadn’t investigated in his initial sweep because it had been dark and had showed no signs of being inhabited. That had been an enormous mistake, because now that he was inside it, he realized it wasn’t empty.

It was filled with stacks full of boxes marked Semtex.

“Holy shit, this was a _terrible_ idea! Why didn’t you tell me there were even more explosives in here?” he asked, turning towards Hemogoblin. It had been him who had come in this way earlier, after all. John felt justified in believing that the troll should have warned him about this.

Hemogoblin didn’t feel the same, apparently, because instead of answering, he grabbed John by the shoulder and started running towards the door that presumably led back into the main hallway, pulling John after him. “I thought you knew something I didn’t, now _run_.”

He didn’t need telling twice. They’d only made it a few yards into the room when the door they’d just gone through shattered, along with parts of the doorframe and the surrounding wall. He didn’t look back to see the female troll enter, but he sure as hell heard her as she gave off another bone-rattling roar. At the sound of her careless thumping into the room after them, John offered a silent prayer to whatever deity was listening and racked his brain trying to remember anything his father had ever said about the volatility of Semtex.

Someone must have heard John’s prayers, because he and Hemogoblin made it out the next door and into the hallway without being exploded. That was little comfort, however, because not two seconds after they had cleared the room, the sound of the mutated troll crashing into the wall followed right on their heels.

Now that they were in the hallway, John realized that they’d traded lots of open space with the possibility of fiery explosions for the safety of no explosions but with a very narrow corridor in which to fight. With the troll’s propensity for bull-rushing them, that was not a good thing.

Hemogoblin had apparently had enough of running, because he turned a few yards down the hall and got into a low stance, leading with his right leg and hand outstretched.

Having ended up behind his partner just as he had in the first room, John put some space between them so that he could concentrate on gathering the wind. Now that he wasn’t being pressed to react instantly, he actually had time to build up some force.

When she finally made it through the door, they were prepared. Because his attack was ranged, John took the liberty of acting first. With a grunt of exertion, he threw all of the wind he’d been building up forward, curving it around Hemogoblin to slam into the female.

While he’d expected resistance, he hadn’t expected her to keep on plowing forward, albeit much more slowly. It was like trying to push a damn boulder up a hill. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his head to be absorbed into his mask as he grunted in exertion, pushing even more power into it. The troll’s progress slowed further, but she was still coming. And if the growls and snarls were any indication, he was only making her angrier.

“Hemogoblin!” he shouted. “You ready? I can’t hold her much longer.” Which was true, because he wasn’t quite willing to dip into the dangerous portion of his power just yet.

But the troll was rock steady, his expression grim as he spoke. “Do it. Let her go.”

John cut the flow of the wind with an audible grunt, and stood back to watch what happened.

To his surprise, Hemogoblin didn’t actually strike at the berserker. He waited until she was mere inches away before he slid forward on his lead foot, his hand latching onto her left shoulder and giving it a sharp jerk, pulling her forward. With her shoulder now over-extended, Hemogoblin’s stance flowed so that he was positioned behind her, his grip never leaving her shoulder so that he was now pushing instead of pulling. All of this resulted in her losing her balance and falling forward, her momentum aided by the hero’s added weight. He followed her down, twisting his body to match her pace. And then she was on the ground, his right knee digging into her back while he pressed down onto her shoulder and wrenched it back with his left hand. It was a textbook redirection, beautiful in its execution. It was also extremely clever, because he’d apparently realized that with her muscles as they were, her center of gravity would have likewise been shifted upwards, making her vulnerable to takedown moves.

That position was also extremely painful, of that John knew from experience. Hemogoblin could actually dislocate or even break her arm almost effortlessly, like that.

It didn’t seem to matter to the female troll, however, because instead of howling in pain like one would expect, her snarling seemed to increase in volume. As he watched, the muscles in her arm actually seemed to bulge again, and she started _breaking the hold through sheer strength_.

Hemogoblin only held for another three seconds before he was forced to abandon the hold and retreat, though he didn’t get away unscathed. In another surprising burst of speed, the female troll twisted from her prone position, her arm flashing out to catch Hemogoblin along the midsection, driving the air from his lungs in a muffled whoosh and sending him sprawling.

John was already on the move as soon as he saw the hold failing, so that he was just in time to intervene as she went for a second vicious swipe. Taking advantage of the fact that she now had her back to him, John threw caution to the (metaphorical) wind and wrapped his right arm tightly around her neck, his left coming up to complete a very stiff rear naked hold.

He was almost immediately thrown off as the troll thrashed backwards, actually causing John’s feet to leave the ground. That worked in his favor, however, as he drew on the wind and found purchase in the air, which now gave him a significant positioning advantage with which to execute the hold.

That didn’t stop her from trying to smack at him, so it was with a grunt of physical exertion that John let his restraint slip and started to apply more and more of his genuine strength, the strength that could bend steel in his fist and break bones without effort.

The deal was pretty much sealed when Hemogoblin struggled back to his feet and grabbed onto her flailing limbs, keeping them pinned to her sides so that she couldn’t hit either of them. Still, it took her quite a bit longer than it would for a normal person to fade into unconsciousness from the lack of blood flow to the brain. John held it for a good two seconds after she’d stopped moving, just to be sure, and then let her go, her body dropping to the floor like a particularly ugly sack of bricks.

As he backed away and leaned against the wall, the adrenaline draining from his system, Hemogoblin likewise slid down to the ground against the opposite wall.

“Goddamn. She hits a hell of a lot harder than Boxcars did.”

John looked at the troll in undisguised concern. “You okay? It looked like she got you pretty good.”

Hemogoblin nodded, though he winced when he brought a glove-covered hand up to touch his chest. “Thankfully, I anticipated the hit and hardened the blood around there to dissipate some of the impact. I think she would have broken some ribs if I hadn’t, and then we’d be playing ‘lets re-inflate our troll friend’s lungs.’ It’s not a very fun game, I’ve been told.”

John smiled weakly, doing his best to get that image out of his head. “No, I’d suspect not. What do we do with her?”

His partner frowned, gently nudging her hand with his foot. “We could tie her up, I guess, but I don’t think I have anything that could hold her. You?”

John shook his head. “I only carry zipties. Maybe we could go back and look for-”

He was interrupted by Hemogoblin’s hand blindly reaching for his right shoulder. John looked over to the troll’s face, but he was staring at the mutated woman, his features depicting something between awe and disgust. “Look, Heir.”

As John’s gaze joined his partner’s, he was just in time to witness the female troll almost _shrinking_ as her muscles deflated into something that was more or less normal. The heroes watched in sick fascination as, over the course of an entire minute, her body returned to what it had been before, looking not much worse for wear beyond a handful of angry blue welts on her skin, and only shredded rags to cover her modesty.

The two shared a long look of silence before John sighed, his hand already dipping into the pouch by his hip. He withdrew both his cellphone and a ziptie. “At least now we don’t have to find rope,” he joked, handing his phone over to Hemogoblin. “Go ahead and call this in. I was going to earlier, but didn’t get the chance. Tell them to send all the bomb disposal units they can find.” He looked down at the female troll consideringly, his thoughts churning as he took advantage of her prostrate position to bind her arms together behind her back, where it would be considerably more difficult to escape were she to gain consciousness before the cops got there. But he didn’t see that happening anytime soon. “Tell them to bring hazmat, as well. While you’re doing that, we should go check back on Deuce, then get out of here.”

The troll nodded before he flipped the phone open and dialed the police, his feet mindlessly leading the way back down the hallway they’d come from as he effortlessly sidestepped the various indentations and scars in the floor left by the woman’s uncontrolled rampage.

The phone conversation was brief, with Hemogoblin relaying John’s message and their current location, as well as the fact that the man responsible for the police station bombing was unconscious on the third floor. As he hung up and passed the phone back to him, John mulled that over.

Deuce was a dangerous man. Not just because of what he was capable of when given the proper materials, but because of the information that he had on the Crew’s inner workings. He’d given them their best lead yet, with concrete information on how to strike at the cobra’s head and completely dismantle the Crew’s operations in his city. And now they were facing the exact same dilemma as they had the previous night: if Deuce’s bosses found out that he had been captured, with his head full of dangerous information, they were likely to completely change their routines and operations, and then they’d be back at square one. Even worse, there was the possibility that the Crew would repeat what they had done that morning and seek to silence Deuce before he was able to tell the cops anything. And the last thing they needed was yet another bombed police precinct. That left only one option.

They had to strike. _Now_. He just hoped he could convince Hemogoblin of as much.

John sighed. So much to do before the night was over. Still, if it meant that his city would be at peace, then it was well worth it. Which was another thought: his city had forgotten what peace tasted like, and the Midnight Crew had only been openly acting for maybe a single week, if that. Already, it felt like months had passed.

Passing through the room of explosives was just as nerve-wracking as it had been the first time, but he figured that if nothing had gone off with all the destruction that that woman had wreaked, then there probably wouldn’t be anything going off, period.

The door to Deuce’s workshop was gone, bits and pieces of it strewn everywhere. Deuce himself was curled up in the fetal position in the corner where John had last seen him cowering, a small puddle of blood surrounding his head. As he walked over to the man and kneeled to check his pulse, Hemogoblin found something else to occupy his attention on the floor.

“Deuce is fine. Looks like he has a pretty nasty gash, probably from the shrapnel from when our friend in the hallway bulldozed that workbench. I hate how much head wounds bleed,” John sneered, his nose wrinkling in distaste as he relieved Deuce of the handkerchief in his breast pocket and pressed it firmly to the wound.

Hemogoblin made a noise of interest in the back of his throat, though his eyes never left the object that was now in his hands. “Take a look at this, Heir,” he said, a gloved finger pointing to a small, handwritten label attached to the injection gun’s vial. “You ever heard of anything called ‘Red Miles’?”

John stood up and crossed the room to his partner, coming to stand right next to him as he looked over the empty vial. “No. You’d think we’d have heard of it before if it did _that_ to someone.”

Hemogoblin nodded, twisting the injection gun around in his hands as he looked for any other identifying marks. “No kidding. That was some straight up comic book shit, right there. Incredible Hulk level, though I doubt the Midnight Crew was able to get its hands on some type of gamma ray device. But maybe the super soldier serum isn’t that far of a stretch. Do you think that’s what this Red Miles is?”

John’s eyebrows raised of their own accord at his partner’s reasoning. While almost anyone could tell you that the Hulk was a product of gamma radiation, the fact that he was sometimes considered a product of a failed super soldier serum was a bit more esoteric.** He was impressed. “It’s possible, I guess? That seems like a really advanced piece of science for a criminal organization to be in possession of, but I guess anything is possible. I can’t really think of anything else that could explain whatever the hell that was, though if it’s a super soldier serum, it’s a pretty shitty one. It only lasted a few minutes, and she clearly had no control over herself whatsoever.”

Hemogoblin let out a “hmm” and set the injection gun down on a table before looking back up at him with those incredibly expressive eyes. “That’s true. I suppose that if we want answers, we’ll have to go straight to the source, huh?”

John straightened. “You mean you want to go tonight? I was just thinking of a way to ask you, but I wasn’t sure if you were up for it after what we’ve already experienced.”

Hemogoblin snorted, that playful look of his finding its way onto his face as he stared at John appreciatively. “I’m fine. Thanks for the concern. But are _you_ okay? How’s that left side of yours doing? That fight couldn’t have helped whatever is wrong with it.”

John lifted his left arm up slowly and held it level, showing that it was steady. The movement wasn’t without pain, but it did prove that he wasn’t actually physically limited in his movements. “It’s my shoulder that’s bothering me, but it’s not that much of a hindrance. I think we need to strike tonight, or else we won’t get another chance this easily.”

“If you’re hurting, we could always inform the cops and let them take care of this?” the troll suggested, the playfulness in his smile now being replaced by concern.

That was touching, but John shook his head. “That’s not an option. The police take time. Time to get a warrant, time to do surveillance, time to gather a team. We can be there in ten minutes, stake them out for half an hour, strike immediately after, and be rid of the Midnight Crew by the time dawn arrives.”

Hemogoblin stared at his partner for several long, drawn-out moments, to the point that John was starting to feel a little awkward under the troll’s scrutiny. Finally, he nodded, conceding that John had a point. “However,” he started, his left hand reaching up to gently rest against John’s right shoulder, “if your shoulder starts giving you any trouble the rest of the night, you tell me, got it? We’re partners now, and partners support each other. You asked me earlier if I’d watch your side, and I do intend to do that. Clear?”

Though John was being greatly distracted by the pleasant warmth that accompanied the troll’s contact, he had enough wherewithal to nod. “Clear.”

“Good,” Hemogoblin grinned, his mouth stretching again into the playful smirk that John was almost definitely falling for. “Now, let’s go visit a strip club.”

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Be sure to scroll to the end of the page for bonus comics.**  
>  *Naked Pizza is a real pizza place actually located 20 minutes drive from where we put John’s house. We are thorough.  
> **I know that this may not be Marvel canon, but bear with me, here. It was a great way to bridge the topic from Hulk to super serums.
> 
>  
> 
> Yes. You read that correctly. Our boys are going to a strip club. One can only imagine the kind of shenanigans that are going to ensue. Also, I can't be the only one who is starting to get frustrated with John, right? Make a move on one of those trolls already, yeesh. Selora (the female troll who Hulked out) belongs to Stelera, who requested her OC get a cameo as a birthday gift. We also have a very special cameo from a contest winner in one of these panels. Can you spot him?
> 
> If you don't follow us on [our tumblr](http://realmenweartights.com/), then you might have missed the announcement that Panic has had to step down from this project, in which case you were probably really confused as to why all of the panels look different from their normal style. We are very pleased to welcome Jove to the team, and extremely excited to showcase her excellent work. I think she did an absolutely wonderful job here, and I am more excited than ever to have her on the team. Speaking of Jove being amazing and us being smitten with her, she has also done up three yonkoma for the chapter:
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Bury me with this, it is perfection.
> 
> Chapter 11 heralds the end of the Midnight Crew Arc, with possibly the most action we've ever had in one chapter. We also get to see the final two main members of the Crew, so be sure to tune in next time! Sgt. out.
> 
> Head Writer: Bananaramses  
> Plotting/Editing: SergeantMeow  
> Illustrator - Jove-Bluh/Feshnie


	12. In Which Players Fold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much action that you'll drown in it. 
> 
> **Be sure to check the endnotes for a hilarious bonus.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! Sorry about taking so long; real world complications kicked us all in the teeth. We thought we'd have everything ready for posting by mid-March or beginning of April at the latest, but work got in the way and we were unable to get the art done as quickly as we originally estimated. This is also an opportunity to let you all know that we might be trying something a little differently in the future with panels, either by changing up the coloring scheme or by sticking with more flat colors. More on that is to come later.
> 
> That's all I had to say, so enjoy the read! -Sgt.

////

About half an hour later or so found John tightening his right arm around Hemogoblin’s waist as the two flew low over the city, their feet passing mere inches over the rooftops below as the teen surrendered himself to the wind’s embrace. His partner didn’t seem terribly thrilled over the near-misses or at the breakneck speeds they were traveling if the regular tensing of his muscles under his hand was any indication, but the troll had yet to say anything. When John looked closer, however, he noticed a grin tugging at the corner of the other hero’s lips, his luminescent eyes shining with a not-so-hidden aura of amusement.

Smiling beneath his mask, John threw on just a little kick of speed, a sudden updraft twirling the pair around in a soft and controlled arc, a result of the wind having sensed his merriment and responded accordingly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hemogoblin’s grin grow just a little wider even as the troll’s muscles tensed yet again, and John felt a trill of happiness sing through his body, and he was appreciative. Ever mindful of its charge’s emotions, the wind seemed to be keeping an eye out for the pair, doing its best to ease their tension. With a night of potential violence ahead of him, that was exactly what John felt he needed at the moment.

They were maintaining a low altitude in order to better navigate the streets, not that keeping a close eye on the roads below was really all that necessary. According to Deuce’s testimony cross-referenced with a quick internet search on John’s phone, the path to their final destination was as simple as following the curve of the Alaska Way Viaduct south before taking a left at Atlantic Street to 1st Avenue. Even if they were flying higher, they would only need to find Safeco Field to know that they were very close, since the club appeared to be only a block from the huge landmark. Even when you knew where you were going, however, it never hurt to travel safely. High velocities and loop-de-loops excluded.

After skirting down the quiet coastline, sticking close to the bends of the road below for what would be a bit over a mile on the ground, the heroes were rapidly approaching the supposed hideout of the Midnight Crew’s higher-ups. As they drew nearer, John could feel the somewhat absentminded joy that the wind had tried to impart seeping from his body and leaving behind something hardening in his stomach, as if someone had opened up a drain around his navel.

With the night still young and the city still very much awake, anything could happen. It had been a surprise to find that it had only passed ten when they had left the safehouse in the hands of the responding police, hazmat crews, and a rather large cadre of bomb disposal units. Seeing so many people out and about in one place while they still had so much work to do was a cold reminder of the very apt cliché that evil never slept.

“It almost seems too easy.” The warm breath of his companion blew against his ear, words a dull murmur over the rushing wind. He tilted his head closer to better catch his partner’s words. When the troll spoke next, John did his best to suppress a shiver that had absolutely nothing to do with the cool wind; he could feel the ghosting of lips nearly pressing on his skin. “My instincts are saying that Deuce didn’t lie about his bosses’ whereabouts or at least where he believes they are, but I don’t understand why the Midnight Crew would just leave someone like him so minimally guarded when they _know_ we’re out here looking for them.”

John nodded softly, understanding Hemogoblin’s concerns after having already considered what the supposed misstep could mean. There was the possibility that it all could have been intentional and that finding Deuce was just a plan to draw the heroes to a certain location. Or the safehouse itself might have been a trap that Deuce had been meant to trigger all along, taking out the heroes and a whole lot of evidence with one press of a button. This location they were heading to could be the actual trap and they’d be walking into a well-fortified slaughter. Or it could all have been a simple oversight, and no one had thought that any member of the Crew would break loyalty and offer information in the face of fear. There were an endless number of scenarios to run through, too many to let any one possibility guide or hinder their actions completely.

Still, he felt it important to offer some kind of response. “Deuce didn’t show any remorse for his actions or guilt over causing all of those deaths. You heard him when he talked about the police station; he was only slightly bothered by the loss of his fellow members, and only fleetingly. I don’t think we can just take anything he said at face value, regardless of how simpleminded he seemed on the surface. I think whatever we find, we need to be careful.”

Hemogoblin sighed in a puff of heat that tickled the nape of John’s neck even through his mask before twisting his torso slightly to draw marginally closer, the warmth of his body a reassuring reminder that John wasn’t having to go into this alone. “I guess it can’t just be an ordinary strip club where we catch these assholes stuffing dollar bills into barely-there g-strings, can it?” Hemogoblin joked, shooting him a wry grin.

John laughed softly, though his accompanying smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes. While he didn’t doubt that they’d soon be encountering a plethora of both strippers and Crew members if their intel was correct, he very much doubted that the Midnight Crew would be visiting the club as mere patrons. That would sure be something, though. They could luck out, take everyone by surprise, and have the whole thing taken care of before midnight. Then they’d be free to patrol the rest of the night away in relative peace, and he could do something nice like invite Hemogoblin to watch the sunrise with him.

He was snapped out of his inner musings as he felt the hand gently gripping his left hip tighten ever so slightly. When he looked over, he saw that Hemogoblin had shifted positions a little bit—he wasn’t actually sure how the troll could manage three-dimensional movement unless the wind was reading his partner’s intentions as it did his own?—so that he was turned more towards John, his eyes now moving up and down his body with an appraising look. He was starting to feel a little self-conscious when Hemogoblin finally asked, “How’re you holding up? Shoulder still giving you trouble?”

He fought the urge to give the appendage a roll, still somewhat leery about placing any unnecessary strain on his collarbone. “I’ll manage, but my body is not going to appreciate all this abuse come tomorrow. Might have to sleep through Sunday. You?”

“Mm, nothing serious.” Hemogoblin rolled his one shoulder not impeded by John’s frame, as if working out a kink. “I’d say I’m ready for round two, but who knows what that will be like?”

John made a noise of agreement as he felt a bit of anxiety return at that notion, the intrusive prospect of the unknown splitting his thoughts like a boulder splitting a stream. There really wasn’t much they could do to prepare for the situation until they drew closer and were able to scout things out, but that seemed to be a reoccurring theme for the night. Just like with Deuce’s hideout, they’d be playing this one by ear. Needless to say, playing things by ear went against every ingrained rule of engagement that his father had relentlessly drilled into his head. But then having the time and opportunity to plan seemed to be an extremely limited luxury when it came to dealing with the Midnight Crew. And with the night’s revelation of some kind of super serum being in their possession, well, that just added to the sense of urgency to see this whole thing through. He needed the Midnight Crew out of his city, and he needed it done as soon as possible, before they could spread their poison any further.

The unwelcomed thoughts of unknown numbers of thugs hopped up on Red Miles were perhaps giving John the most anxiety about this venture, more than anything else yet. The notion of being pitted against a dozen enemies just as big and as angry as the one they’d already faced was enough to turn the hard lump in his stomach cold.

His somewhat morose thoughts were interrupted by Hemogoblin yet again, this time accompanied by the shifting of the troll’s hand to the small of his back, as he’d apparently realized that the wind had him even if he wasn’t physically holding on; John was glad that he still wanted the contact, regardless. When he looked around and noticed where they were, he was slightly startled to realize he’d zoned almost completely out for a large portion of the trip, which was dangerous to do when he’d already given himself over to the wind’s guidance; his silent, breezy partner seemed to have a sense of humor to rival any warm-blooded Egbert, and had on more than one occasion led him into dead ends or tree branches when he’d seen fit enough to let himself become subservient to its whims. It didn’t seem he’d had anything to worry about on this occasion, however.

“That our place?” Hemogoblin nodded slightly towards a rapidly approaching neon glow coming up directly in front of them, the obnoxious red and white drowning out all other ambient colors in the sky from the buildings around them.

With a slight exertion of will, John slowed them down, his eyes—aided by the wind—picking out the perfect landing site. There was a half-completed five story flat less than a block away from the garish neon sign, its bared girders reaching up well above their heads and offering the allure of a well-concealed spot with which to do some snooping. John set them down behind one such girder near the edge of the building’s roof, Hemogoblin disentangling himself from his side to get a better look.

As he joined the troll at the roof’s edge and gazed out, it became apparent that there was absolutely no doubting that they had found the right place, even without taking in the vertical sign with bold letters flashing the club’s name as clear as day. To the right of the sign hung the illuminated outline of an unnaturally proportioned female troll, back arched as she posed off of a neon-yellow pole. The sizable building was painted dark with crimson trim on its borders, providing an ideal backdrop for the gaudy stars interspersed between bright calls of “HUMANS,” “TROLLS,” and “WORLD CLASS DANCERS.” From his vantage point, John could just make out a large, black-clad bouncer standing sentinel by the door, side-eyeing anyone who approached the building, be they patrons or otherwise. If nothing else, The Grey Ladies fit in with any of the other of Seattle’s strip clubs which John had seen.

“It seems pretty normal from here, but that’s to be expected, I guess,” John murmured, the fingers of his left hand curling around the steel girder he was using to mask his body from sight. “They seem to be good about having their safehouses look unassuming, at least.” After a few moments’ hesitation, he nodded his head, having come to an internal decision. “Let’s loop around back and take a look from there. That parking garage will make a good vantage spot, and I want to get a feel for the rest of the perimeter.”

Hemogoblin made a noise of agreement, and then he stepped back from the edge to give John an expectant look. After a moment of trying to decipher the troll’s intentions, it clicked, and John joined Hemogoblin by standing to his left. His partner’s hand immediately slid around his side and rested gently against the small of his back, like before, so John wrapped his good arm around Hemogoblin’s waist in what he guessed was now going to be their customary flight position. And then they were off.

With his partner once more tucked against his side, John wordlessly gathered the wind to his side, letting it build up for several long, drawn-out moments, before he compressed and shoved it down, the sudden gust bursting forth into existence and propelling them straight up, their speed masking their travel from any curious onlookers who might have noticed a dark blur launching from a half-constructed building. At some point during the transition from standing to human rockets, Hemogoblin’s hand had gone from gently pressing against John’s lower back to full-on gripping his hip tightly, almost painfully. As soon as they reached a height which would most likely keep them free from notice, John brought them to a slow halt, his free hand coming up to grip the troll’s opposite shoulder softly, his body rotating to face the other’s. It didn’t escape his keen observation that if they were to get any closer, they’d be hugging.

“Sorry about that, Hemogoblin. I forgot to warn you,” he laughed nervously, the wind carrying his words to the troll’s ears easily, the usual roar of the air at this height being completely absent at his request. Hemogoblin’s face was scrunched tight in alarm, his grip on John’s hip still not having lost any of its strength even though they’d stopped.

Whoops. John was definitely going to have to remember to warn him before ever doing that, again. “We’re going to have to go just as fast in our descent if we want to remain undetected, though. You ready?”

Hemogoblin closed his eyes and inhaled deeply and slowly. When he opened them again a few moments later, John’s breath stuttered and hitched in his throat at the intensity shining in the glowing orbs as they peered into and beyond the lenses of his goggles with determination. After he nodded resolutely, eyes never leaving his once, it was John’s turn to collect himself for a few moments, if for a very different reason.

After doing his best to clear his mind of impure thoughts about the troll in his arms, John refocused on the task at hand, doing his best to dredge up the image of the parking garage he’d seen moments before. Then he released his will out among the winds currently swirling around them, as well as one command: _Fast_.

As they rocketed downwards at a slight angle, the hand on his hip loosened slightly, at least to the point where John was no longer worried about any marks being left on his skin. That was pretty far from his mind, however, as when he looked back up from the ground rapidly approaching below them, he discovered that Hemogoblin had yet to let his gaze waver from his, which was once again making it very difficult to focus.

Luckily for them both, the wind was paying attention where its wielder was not, as only a few short seconds later, their speed started dropping and their descent came to a stop, leaving them hovering a foot above the concrete floor of the parking garage. The roof level was almost completely abandoned, thankfully, probably owing to how late in the evening it was and the fact that there were no events happening in the nearby stadium. Hemogoblin was quick to extricate himself from John’s near-embrace as he hopped down the rest of the way to the garage floor.

“Please don’t do that again without telling me what you’re planning first, okay? If I wasn’t in control of my body, you might have given me a heart attack just then.” The grin the troll offered him was a bit shaky, but his tone carried an undertone of self-depreciative humor.

John nodded, his right hand coming up to distractedly rub the back of his neck through his hood. “Again, sorry about that. I guess I wasn’t thinking too much about it since I normally don’t have a passenger, and because you seemed to enjoy the ride earlier.”

Hemogoblin shifted his weight from his left leg to his right as his grin morphed into one that was a bit warmer. “Yeah, well, I’m used to dodging rooftop objects at high speeds. Having gravity shove all my organs into my feet, not so much.”

John let loose a laugh before he could stop himself, prompting his partner’s grin to widen even further before he abruptly turned around and started walking in the direction of the roof’s edge nearest The Grey Ladies, a little bit of swing in his hips. Or maybe that was just John’s imagination.

Sighing softly, John flicked his wrist and sent the wind blowing through each level of the car park, searching for anything lurking in its recesses which meant them harm. When it returned moments later, it did as a swirling mass, curving once around his body before settling around him. There were no delayed strands or tendrils tugging in any direction, which meant that there was nothing deemed a threat within several levels of them.

His self-appointed task complete, John walked to the edge of the roof to stand next to his partner and looked out into the night at the back of the strip club directly across the street.

The rear of the building seemed to mirror the front. There were bright, neon signs set against a dark backdrop with a lone bouncer—who looked like he could have been the twin of the one stationed in front—standing guard. The only real differences between the back and the front were a small, tightly packed parking lot full of inconspicuous vehicles, two shut bay doors, and a dumpster. While the establishment wasn’t exactly bustling with foot traffic, more people seemed to be entering from this side of the building, though neither the number nor the people themselves were significant enough be of much note. Unless the Midnight Crew had suddenly gotten smarter about not wearing fancy suits all day every day, there were a lot of average-seeming men and women patroning the business.

After what must have been twenty or so minutes of silent surveillance, there had only been a single black suit in the entire bunch, and its wearer had been amongst a group of seemingly normal business men donned in similar suits of browns and blues. Nothing broke the illusion that what they were looking at was a normal strip club.

“So, do we go in and check it out?” the soft voice of his partner whispered near his right ear.

John straightened up. “I think we have to, yeah. There’s nothing more we can really learn from watching the outside, I think. I don’t really see any rooftop entry points and I’m not exactly thrilled about our chances of sneaking around inside a heavily occupied building while trying to remain undetected, so we’re going to have to be pretty obvious about our approach. Unless you’re hiding a disguise underneath your…”

He let the question die on his lips as he looked over at the troll, feeling stupid for even thinking of asking the question. He was painfully reminded every time he looked at him that the other hero’s suit was fitted to the contours of his body, tailored to follow each and every curve and dip of muscle. With the way the fabric hugged every inch of his frame like a glove, the folds of any hidden clothes would have stuck out like a sore thumb, especially considering all of the “inspections” he’d given the troll’s ensemble since they’d met. He caught his stare lingering just a bit too long at the slender, uninterrupted arc of his hipbone and snapped his attention back upwards. Hemogoblin caught his eyes and grey lips twitched in amusement.

“Really? You think I could actually fit _anything_ under this thing?” he questioned in a sly tone, gesturing at himself for good measure to encourage another glance.

John didn’t let himself fall for the trap. “No, I suppose not. I’m guessing it’s also a ‘no’ on an instant costume change ability or a magical transformation sequence?”

The troll just smirked and tilted his head slightly, a gesture which was most likely Hemogoblin-ese for _‘Heir is kind of an idiot’_.

“Anyways, I don’t think we have many choices here. It’s busting in full-hero from the get-go, stake it out for multiple days and lose a possible advantage, or ‘borrow’ some clothes from passing civilians, sneak in despite being minors, and most likely compromise our real identities.”

Not that he would mind seeing his partner outside of work in a more casual setting. He’d had plenty of fantasies of them meeting on the street or hanging out sans costumes, including a mental depiction for what he imagined the rest of Hemogoblin’s face hidden under his half mask looked like, with his hood down and real horns sticking out from his black hair. Only those neon eyes would break the illusion of him being an average, run-of-the-mill teenager.

John shoved those thoughts down. There was a time and a place for contemplating secret identities and their revealing, and this wasn’t the time or the place. He was positive it was going to happen someday, but it wasn’t going to be as they were trying to sneak into a strip club.

“Option one, then,” Hemogoblin agreed after a minute’s consideration. “It makes the most sense, since we don’t know how long we’ll have before they become aware of what went down at the safehouse, if they don’t already know. When we get inside, I can handle any of the minor minions we run into so you can rest your shoulder until we get to the big boss. Or bosses, if Deuce was actually telling the truth.” Neither of them wanted to dwell on what they were about to walk into if that wasn’t the case, it seemed. “So, are we strolling in, or flying?”

“A bit of both. Ready?” At the troll’s nod, John wrapped an arm around Hemogoblin’s midsection and lifted them both up off the ground.

Rather than rushing headlong at the club and its only visible guard, John flew them over the side of the parking garage to the ground level, where they touched down on a small patch of dewy grass, hidden away in the long shadow of the building. There they waited patiently in the shadows for two small groups of pedestrians to pass them by.

Once the sidewalk on both ends of the street was more or less deserted, the heroes shot across the street and tucked in behind the row of cars in the club’s parking lot. From there, it would be just a handful of easy steps to the door and up to the bored-looking bouncer.

They waited for the bouncer to be distracted by two trolls entering the establishment before they stood up and started walking, confident that the bouncer would assume that they had just come from a car.

With each step forward, the deep pulse of music spilling out from the building became clearer. A bassline's tempo pounded slow and deep, producing a rhythm which practically oozed sex appeal. The sudden screech of a guitar riff made John wince in discomfort, picturing how bad it would be for his damaged left ear once they actually made it past the threshold.

The bouncer watched them as they approached, seeming like he was only giving them half his attention. The man was large, bald, and basically reminded John of a less friendly Mr. Clean. He made no move to stop them as they drew closer, nor did he give any indication that he was preparing to bolt inside shouting about two superheroes about to launch a raid. Neither did he show signs that he was about to press a detonator and blow everything sky high, which was a nice, welcomed change. His expression was professionally neutral as his eyes scanned over them once, but that was all the reaction they got. That was, until they were within striking distance.

“Hold up, you two.” An arm stretched out across the door as the man took them in with a more scrutinizing gaze. Hemogoblin tensed slightly, his muscles shifting subtly into a relaxed stance for what John was pretty sure was meant to facilitate the kicking of someone in the face. As a precaution, he formed an invisible and concentrated blast of wind in his palm that would successfully put this guy out of commission for the remainder of the evening should his partner’s kick fail.

So they were both appropriately surprised when the man in front of them sighed, dropped his arm to his side, and raised a thick eyebrow. “Fellas, I appreciate the enthusiasm, you know I do, but costume night is Thursdays only. You know that. Go on in and get yourselves changed, yeah?”

Just like that, he stepped aside to grant them entrance.

John wasn’t sure who was more shocked—himself, or Hemogoblin. He looked towards the bouncer to see if this was really happening, but the man had already dismissed them from his notice and had gone back to diligently scanning the parking lot for imaginary car thieves and muggers. When he looked back to Hemogoblin, he was greeted with his partner’s mouth hanging slightly open, his jaw moving from side to side like he was trying to work something out. John had seen that same behavior on his best friend’s face before the troll exploded, and if Hemogoblin were anything like Karkat, that was the last thing that they needed now that they’d already made it past the bouncer without having to harm what could potentially be an innocent civilian. Grabbing the other hero gently by his shoulder, John did his best to guide him further into the building, hopefully reaching out of earshot of the bouncer outside. It turned out that that was a smart move.

“Okay, did that moron _seriously_ just mistake us for strippers? Seriously? How old did he think we were? What kind of goddamn shady-ass establishment are they running, here?” the troll hissed, his cursing momentarily throwing John for a loop. “I mean, I get that the first hiring criteria for bouncer isn’t probably a high IQ, but you’d think they’d at least hire someone who can spot a sixteen year old. Fuck.”

He was sixteen, too? John filed that tidbit away and then cleared his throat softly, giving his partner’s shoulder a gentle squeeze to help reassure and calm him down. He was thankful that the narrow, dimly-lit corridor they were in seemed to be deserted, otherwise that little outburst would have been hard to explain.

“Maybe he just saw the outfits and didn’t really take that close a look at us. He didn’t even notice your eyes. Which, I suppose, does make him a pretty shitty bouncer. He didn’t even ask for any I.D. But that was like the best case scenario for us sneaking in here, so, mission success?” he tried to keep his tone light to prevent raising the troll’s ire again, which seemed to work.

Hemogoblin closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath, and when he opened his eyes again, he seemed to have refocused on the task at hand. “Yeah. You’re right. That’s exactly what we wanted. Doesn’t really say much for the Midnight Crew if it’s that easy to infiltrate their main base of operations, though, does it?” he smiled, his face looking much calmer than it had a few moments ago, as if he’d taken all of his frustration and buried it under the guise of a hero.

John dropped his hand from the troll’s shoulder and stared at him for a few moments longer, still trying to process the abrupt shift in emotions, before he responded. “Yeah, actually. I’m starting to wonder if this wasn’t some type of trap or prank. If that bouncer was Midnight Crew, somebody neglected to tell him about us.”

Hemogoblin “hmm”ed in the back of his throat and stretched his arms out in front of him. “If this really is a Midnight Crew hideout, it wouldn’t surprise me if the strip club is at least legit. All the better to create a more believable cover-up if you’re actually providing a service. But to not have the staff in on it? That’s both risky and dumb.”

John followed his partner’s example and stretched out his arms, though he was careful with the left one. There was no telling what they were about to encounter when they walked into the main area at the end of the hallway, and it never hurt to be limber. Bad guys didn’t give you time to stretch first. “Maybe. It could just be that they’ve got such a heavy presence in here that they don’t bother telling the hired help what’s really going on.”

The troll brought his hands together and cracked his knuckles. “There’s only one way to really know for sure. You ready to do this, partner?”

“You bet. Plans?”

Hemogoblin offered him a grin that was almost feral in its wolfishness. “I’m all of a sudden in the mood to kick some ass. Want to just play it by ear, see what happens when we make an appearance?”

That wasn’t how John usually operated, but this was a special circumstance. They were about to enter territory which either could or could not be enemy-controlled, which was most likely filled with a large number of innocent civilians (and strippers). They were also wearing superhero costumes on what they had been informed was most definitely not costume night. Taken altogether, there were too many variables to account for. Having a set plan might actually backfire on them in such a situation. “Sounds good to me. Let’s do it.”

Nodding to each other, they set off. Ahead of them, the hallway branched off into two directions. The right-hand side ended with a thick-looking door with a “No Entry” sign, so more than likely that was the backstage area. The left just had a pair of black curtains stretched across a door frame, with rich fuchsia and purple lights spilling out from between the two panels of fabric.

They strode forwards, pushing past the black fabric and entering the main room of the Grey Ladies. The first thing to assault John’s senses as he pushed the heavy curtain aside was the blaring of the music. It was still the same song he’d heard earlier, the rhythm fast and hard, giving the dancers on stage something to work to. The room itself was somewhat dark, with most of the illumination coming from the stage, the pink and purple lighting showcasing the dancers’ performances. The rest of the establishment was lit with dim orange bulbs, their pale glow turned so low that they probably only functioned to ensure that nobody tripped over the myriad of plush chairs and cocktail tables scattered about. The rest of the club’s interior seemed...pretty swanky, actually. The shiny steel rigging for the lights and the dark red and black hues featured throughout helped to create a kind of industrial aesthetic that did the club credit. If it weren’t for the prominently-featured poles and the dancers shaking their asses on stage, the place could almost be mistaken for a reputable dance club.

There was a slight haze of smoke floating about the room, but it wasn’t very thick and didn’t give off the characteristic smell of tobacco, so John assumed it was probably the remnants of some kind of smoke machine. The main stage was separated into two distinct platforms, each with its own pole and a dozen or so chairs surrounding them. Most of the chairs seemed to be occupied, allowing the more enthusiastic patrons to get as close as possible to the action, close enough to allow their money to part from their hands and into G-strings, in any case. There was a second stage located in the middle of the room, though it only contained a single pole. The rest of the floor was taken up by small clusters of chairs surrounding tiny cocktail tables, allowing viewers to see either stage depending on how they wanted to position their chairs. Most of them filled with men and women—both trolls and humans—of various ages. The wall opposite the stages was taken up by a small bar and by the front entrance, which was much more open than the curtained back entrance they’d come from. The stairway leading up to the second floor was also located there. The rest of the walls on both the left and right contained wide booths clearly meant for more private shows, except for several wide, floor-to-ceiling length mirrors to the left of the main stage. John wasn’t sure of their function, but theorized it might have something to do with the strippers who performed on that stage.

The second floor drew the bulk of John’s attention after he’d finished surveying the ground level, as the higher vantage point almost always afforded an attacker the advantage and thus was a prime place for an ambush. But as his eyes scanned over the various men and women leaning over the plexiglass-framed rails or reclining in the lounge areas there, he saw nobody suspicious. No dark suits with dark hats, no matter which way he looked. The darkness and smokiness of the room wasn’t exactly helping in that endeavor, but he wasn’t getting any insistent warnings from the wind, either. At the center of the floor next to the top of the stairs was a DJ booth, with an animated troll inside.

Honestly, he had half-expected there to be some obvious indicator that this was a Midnight Crew base, like the tacky use of playing card suits all over the place, but there wasn’t much of anything to indicate a heavy gangster presence. If anything, the pink and purple hues given off from the stage lighting made the place feel warm and exciting. There was something niggling at him, however. Based on the exterior layout of the building that he’d gleaned from their earlier reconnaissance, this club was too small. That is, this strip club portion was too small for the building it was in. Even taking into account things like offices and dressing rooms, he estimated that maybe only half of the building space was being used as what it advertised. And that was setting off warning bells.

He scanned the club once over again, this time taking more care to look at the actual people. For obvious teenaged reasons, however, his gaze was eventually drawn to the large twin stage upon which several dancers were performing. A nearly nude male troll had wrapped himself impossibly around the slender pole to the left, his toned body catching in small waves at each beat of the music as strong limbs twisted his form in provocative angles. In contrast to his movements, his expression was soft, plump lips shining with gloss parted to show dazzling white teeth, the soft curls of his bangs falling into bright, blue eyes while his short, angular horns flashed captivatingly with each bob of his head. The crowd around him seemed quite eager to part with their money as there were quite a few bills tucked into the strings of his thong, and John didn’t blame them a single bit.

On the right pole was a human woman wearing nothing except a pair of black stilettos and a few strategically placed strips of fabric that really didn’t hide anything from the imagination. Her hips were swaying exaggeratedly as she moved towards the edge of the stage, her fire-red hair (which John’s keen eyes told him was a wig) being tossed playfully in the air behind her. Olive skin gave way to a predatory grin as she fixed her painted lips into a pout and made an encouraging gesture at a male troll sitting directly in front of her, a fist full of singles in his hand.

John’s cheeks flared brightly as he averted his gaze from the main stage and past the one in the center of the room—this one featuring a rather energetic female troll currently removing what looked like a dangerously non-regulation police uniform (apparently that sort of costume was allowed on days beside Thursday?)—and to the bar set against the opposite wall, his eyes staring fixedly at the bottles lining the wall and the decidedly _not_ naked people. It didn’t help things much that there were topless males and females of both species walking around serving drinks and doing...other things. He was really glad his mask hid his cheeks.

“Okay. So,” John started, clearing his suddenly very dry throat. It didn’t help that he was having to talk much louder than he was used to in order to be heard over the music, which, combined with having to maintain his fake “hero voice,” was putting quite a lot of strain on his vocal chords. It was mostly that he was just embarrassed, however. He hadn’t really wanted his first encounter with a real life naked person to be at a strip club. He’d wanted, well...a glance over at his partner set his cheeks on fire again as he desperately tried to steer his mind away from places it shouldn’t be going at the moment. When Hemogoblin stopped his own survey of the room to set his attention on him, he hoped he wasn’t blushing as hard as he felt he was because it felt like his cheeks were hot enough to be seen even through his mask. His next words were unintentionally soft to the point where Hemogoblin had to lean in close to hear him. “Something seems off to me, but I can’t see any immediately obvious evidence. Now what?”

“Now we look for bad guys?” the troll replied, though he didn’t sound sure. On the outside, at least, Hemogoblin appeared completely unfazed by this whole ordeal, with absolutely no color dotting his grey cheeks even though he’d undoubtedly been looking at the same things John had. But then again, he had complete control over what his blood did, so if he didn’t want to blush, he wasn’t going to. Lucky bastard.

“You'd think they'd have spotted us the second we walked through the door.” Oddly enough, they hadn’t received many looks from anyone as they stood in the entryway, except for one or two curious, lingering stares from a few of the people seated in the plush chairs nearest them. That didn’t necessarily mean that they hadn’t been spotted, of course, just that nobody had decided to raise a fuss over them yet.

Hemogoblin let out a huff of irritation, his hands moving to rest on his hips. “What do you want me to do about it? Get up on stage and do a striptease to lure them out of hiding?”

John’s brain stuttered to an absolute halt as his imagination very readily presented him with an approximation of what that might look like. Hemogoblin was probably way more flexible than the troll currently wrapping himself around that pole, it helpfully supplied, and was probably even more toned. And when those long, slender fingers caught the zipper at his neck and started slowly dragging downwards to expose his collarbones, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip—

“Is that an actual option?” John breathed. And then immediately he felt like shoving his fist in his mouth. He definitely hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

A small, sly grin formed on the troll’s face, which very quickly morphed into something sultry and decidedly pleased with himself, the very epitome of the cat who caught the canary. John’s eyes zeroed in on his partner’s lips as his next words seemed to come out in slow motion, his tone something decidedly more husky. “Ask me again when we're in private, Heir.”

And that was the exact instant that his brain said ‘Fuck it’ and went on strike, leaving the teenager with his mouth hanging wide open. At least, he was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open. He couldn’t actually be sure at the moment, and he’d forgotten how to close it. If the Midnight Crew were to spring an attack on them at that very moment, John would’ve been a goner, for sure. The only thing going through his head was the image of his partner’s lips forming those words, and _holy shit, that was smooth as hell_.

While John’s entire reality was short-circuiting from that magnificently successful flirt, he had apparently missed a club patron entering right behind them. That wasn’t exactly high on his list of priorities at the moment, if it weren’t for the fact that as soon as the man spotted them blocking his way further into the club, he chose to reach out and grab a handful of Hemogoblin’s ass, and then _squeezed_ greedily, the entirety of the troll’s body going ramrod stiff in an instant, as if he’d been electrified.

“Hey, baby, you new here? Haven’t seen you around,” he leered, a smarmy grin on his face as he leaned in much too far into the troll’s personal space.

Still trying to recover from his partner’s earlier quip, John was slow to react, and had only just managed to narrow his eyes in challenge and gather the wind for a vicious strike when Hemogoblin acted.

In one moment, the troll had flicked his glance down to where the man had attached his hand to his person, and then in the next, the man’s arm was being wrenched too far behind his body as he was being shoved forcefully into the wall next to the entryway. John barely had time to open his mouth to say something before Hemogoblin leaned his weight forward and then there was a sickening crack and a pained moan, signaling that the man’s arm was now either dislocated or broken. His partner didn’t let up, however, and the creep soon found his face becoming intimately acquainted with the floor. He didn’t move after that, obviously out like a light.

It was both stunning and intimidating to see Hemogoblin move with such an unprecedented speed, and it left John in awe. He’d known that the other hero was fast, but not _that_ fast. But then, he’d never seen the troll in this kind of state before. Everything about his body language pointed to him being absolutely _pissed_. With his shoulders trembling, his hands being balled into tight fists by his sides, and his eyes threatening murder, the only word John could think of that appropriately described the troll’s visage was _apoplectic_. He wasn’t even bothering to suppress the red staining his cheeks.

So. Touching the butt without permission was a definite no-no. Duly noted.

The people nearest the duo were only just now registering the act of violence that had occurred in front of them, a pair of humans nearly stumbling out of their chairs as they pushed them back and stood to their feet, eager to get away from Hemogoblin lest he lash out again. A nearby human waitress dropped her tray of empty beer bottles and shouted, causing even more heads to turn in their direction. With an inward sigh at the way that things had developed, John absentmindedly sent a tendril of wind to the DJ booth, cutting the music in an instant as the wind felt its way across the main console and then pushed all of the sliders on the DJ’s mixer to zero.

The silence that resulted was almost deafening as, all at once, a great many dozens of eyes turned to find the source of the disruption, eventually landing on the pair of outlandishly-dressed teens. Even the dancers up on stage had halted their shows when they noticed that all of their customers’ heads were craning to look back behind them at this newest bit of entertainment. The only movement in the entire club that John was able to see were the forms of what looked to be several bouncers pushing and shoving their way through the sea of patrons, intent on investigating whatever had caused the interruption in services.

Trying to make light of the situation, John leaned over and, in a perfect stage whisper, told his partner, “Oh well. There goes the infiltration option, I guess.”

Hemogoblin made no indication of having even heard him as he shrugged one shoulder, his muscles still tense with contained anger.

John shifted a little nervously as he took in his partner’s nonplussed reaction. Having had more than an ample amount of practice in reading pissed-off-troll body language, he could spot an impending explosion when he saw one.

Not that he really blamed him. He would’ve punched that guy’s face into the floor had Hemogoblin not beaten him to it.

John took a moment to clear his throat and prepare it for his best “fear not, citizens” voice, before he loudly called out, “Alright, people, this is official hero business. If you don’t want to get in the middle of this, clear out now. We’re here for the Midnight Crew.”

That announcement was met with more staring, including from the three bouncers who had just stopped a few yards short of the duo, somewhat confused looks on their faces as if to say that nobody had ever prepped them on official protocol having to deal with superheroes.

The crowd wasn’t moving quickly enough for Hemogoblin, apparently.

“YOU HEARD HIM, FUCKERS. MOVE!” the troll shouted. Very, very loudly.

Hemogoblin punctuated the exclamation by flicking his arm against his side, puncturing his wrist on one of the spikes fixed to his hip. John knew what he was doing the moment he saw that arm go down, but it was still fascinating to watch the resulting spray of blood coalesce in midair before shooting back to the troll’s now raised arm, forming a very large, very sharp-looking blade.

John was suitably impressed. Everyone else lost their shit.

There was a tumultuous cacophony as chairs and stools were pushed back as people jumped to their feet, suddenly very afraid of the now visibly armed troll shouting at them to move from across the room. The stampede of feet against floor was loud as people scattered towards the one remaining exit.

Several mixed emotions reared their head as John started to see solitary figures dressed in black standing their ground amongst the rushing throngs, people flowing around them as if they were stones in a river. On one hand, the sight of black hats immediately raised his anxiety level, as here was proof that their night was about to get a lot more interesting. On the other hand, he was finding it hard to put into exact words how relieved he was feeling that they hadn’t just raided a perfectly innocent strip club devoid of Midnight Crew presence. That would have been embarrassing.

An eerily-pleased grin stretched Hemogoblin’s face as he surveyed the gathered Crew members and let his sickle liquefy, pulling it back inside his body. The gasps from the nearby bouncers were a bit jarring, as John has stopped paying attention to them the moment he spotted his first Crew member and had assumed they’d left with the rest of the civilians. The looks on their faces, however, assured him that they weren’t going to be a threat. He had other concerns on his mind, anyway.

Turning to look at his partner from the corner of his eye, John frowned slightly. He recognized what his partner was doing; by refusing to use his powers, he was sending a statement that these Crew members simply didn’t warrant that kind of effort. And while John pretty much agreed with that sentiment, he didn’t approve of the troll’s cockiness. That was the sort of thing that could get you hurt in their particular line of work. Or maybe his confidence came from the fact that he could probably heal from anything these guys could dish out? Regardless, they needed to finish this quickly. This was clearly a Midnight Crew hangout, and that meant there could be more lurking in other parts of the building or on their way to provide backup.

With the last of the civilians having fled, everything was still as the two groups sized the other up. Actually, it was more like every _one_ was still. The wind gathered, unseen, both conjured from John’s very will and summoned forth from the doorway behind them to curl its tendrils around the room, ready to spring to his aid at a moment’s call.

The silence between the groups was broken as the besuited troll to the furthest right let out a noisy sigh, hands going to his coat lapels and yanking them straight in what seemed to be a well-rehearsed habit. Owing to the fact that none of the others made a move, John surmised that this was probably the highest-ranking member of this particular group, even though his lapels were conspicuously absent of the characteristic card-themed pin that they’d come to recognize as denoting one of the core members.

He was certainly ugly enough to be a head bad guy, what with the oversized canines poking out from his upper lip and the cruel-looking scar that stretched from the left side of his face near the hairline, down across his cheek, and to his jaw. The look was topped off by an arrogant sneer.

When he spoke, the troll’s voice sounded as if he’d been gargling a mouthful of gravel. John was a little envious, as that was exactly the right pitch he struggled to reach for “Heir’s voice,” and yet the troll was pulling it off naturally. Unfair.

“Dunno how you jerks found this place, but it was a mistake comin’ here. ‘m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you two to leave,” he growled out.

That caused John’s eyebrows to shoot up into his hairline. “I’m sorry, you _what_?”

The thug turned to the group of bouncers, then, though he kept his eyes riveted on the heroes. “What the hell do we pay you mooks for? Escort these gentlemen from the premises.”

When the bouncers shifted their gazes from the scarred troll to the heroes and then back again, their faces still registering confusion, the mafioso growled out a “ _Now!_ ” that caused all three bouncers to jump in place, before two of them rushed forward.

The first one to reach the pair caught a vicious palm strike to the face courtesy of Hemogoblin that sent him dropping to the ground like a sack of lead, blood spurting from his nose.

John lazily dodged a slow haymaker from the second bouncer by taking a step back, before he capitalized on the provided opening and stepped into the man’s guard, a quick jab to the temple sending him to the floor to join his colleague. Before he’d even hit the ground, John was coiling his body in preparation for dodging another attack, as he was closest to the third bouncer and had expected the troll to have made his move as soon as his compatriot had engaged.

Only when John looked up, he spotted the third bouncer standing exactly where he’d last seen him, his hands now up placatingly.

“Um, yeah, hi,” the troll stammered, spreading his palms as if to show he was unarmed. “This isn’t a movie, you guys are clearly the real deal, and these assholes pay me thirteen bucks an hour. Sooooo, yeah. I’m just gonna. Fuck right off. Bye.” And with that, he was carefully edging his way around the two superheroes, giving their immediate perimeter a wide berth as he walked towards the exit, hands still raised.

John could only stare in abject disbelief as, for the first time in his entire life, he actually encountered proof of a _non-stupid minion_. He was pretty sure this needed to be written about and scientific papers needed to be established, because holy crap, that was definitely a first. He was released from his stupefaction by the angry muttering of “Oh for fuck’s sake” from the lead Crew member, who, John saw, was reaching into his suit jacket for something. As were the rest of the Crew members.

He reacted instantly, re-establishing his will on his prepared wind and sending it barreling at every single one of the thugs in an instant. The wind reached them just in time, as six guns, three knives, and a pair of brass knuckles were yanked from startled grasps and thrown across the room to land in the balconies above them, well beyond the reach of any of the thugs trapped with them on the ground floor.

That was all the prompting Hemogoblin needed to begin, as he was moving before most of the weapons had ceased their tumble through the air, three long strides and a vault over a railing taking him directly into the midst of the four members to the right, including the supposed leader.

The same supposed leader who moments later went down in a spray of mustard blood as Hemogoblin grabbed ahold of his curved horns and drove the man’s face down into his rising knee, the grip on his horns not abating as he _threw_ him into the railing he’d just vaulted over, the troll’s already abused face meeting with the polished brass poles and producing a clang that made John wince. That was definitely not going to be doing any favors for that guy’s looks.

The next person to attack was a woman who went for a high kick towards Hemogoblin’s turned back, but his partner must have had eyes in the back of his head because he ducked underneath the kick as if it was choreographed and delivered a brutal punch to the side of her knee on her pivot leg, causing her to crumple to the ground in a cry of agony. A blow to the temple sent her unconscious, and then Hemogoblin was moving on to his next opponent.

John had no more time to observe his partner’s fight as two thugs made an attempt at jumping him, but he handled them with almost contemptuous ease. After parrying a half a dozen strikes from each adversary, he lashed out with a fist encased in wind that sent one troll flying across the room to slam against a wall, his human counterpart following shortly after due to a similarly windy snap kick. When John turned from surveying the results of his handiwork, he found the immediate area already completely cleared of potential opponents. The only enemies remaining, in fact, were a pair of slender trolls who were already engaging his partner.

John moved to support his teammate, but the feral grin of enjoyment on Hemogoblin’s face had him hanging back. He clearly had this under control, so for now, the other hero would simply observe.

Unlike the Crew members they’d already fought, the two Hemogoblin were fighting now seemed to actually have some amount of skill. More than the base amount of street-fighting and hand-to-hand that most of the other low-ranking members of their organization seemed to possess, in any case. Their hands were almost a blur as they lashed out against Hemogoblin in tandem, their movements fluid and doing well in covering the openings left by the other. Only his partner seemed to be having absolutely no trouble keeping up with the both of them despite their numerical advantage, his hands moving even faster to bat hits aside and redirect blows with little difficulty.

At some unseen signal, one of the pair broke off and jumped back, immediately kneeling on one leg as his hands went to his ankle. The still combative troll did his best to keep up with Hemogoblin’s now unrestrained flurry of jabs and strikes, but he was overwhelmed in a matter of mere seconds, first with several strikes to his chest, and then with a jab to his trachea. He dropped instantly, hands instinctively going to clutch at his throat.

He’d done his job well and bought time for his partner, however, because when the remaining troll stood up, he was grasping a baton which extended with the press of a button, its tip producing a blindingly white jolt between two protruding prongs—a stun baton.

John would have disarmed him in an instant with the help of the wind, had his partner not held his hand up in John’s direction, his grin growing even wider.

He trusted Hemogoblin’s skills so he wouldn’t say anything, but he seriously hoped he wasn’t misjudging the situation. If the hemomancer was lost to a rage-fueled bloodlust and not just thoroughly enjoying getting to vent his anger on some worthy opponents, then this could end badly. Those kinds of weapons could emit absolutely terrifying amounts of electricity, enough to cause muscle spasms and paralysis in under a second. A single misstep could mean his partner’s defeat.

It turned out that his fears were unfounded.

The Midnight Crew member charged after Hemogoblin with the baton tucked by his side, lashing out with it in quick jabs and thrusts as he attempted to skewer him, the air humming with released static with each near-miss. Hemogoblin ducked and weaved around each strike as if he could anticipate their trajectory before they’d been launched. On one particular strike, Hemogoblin weaved to the side and let the thrust pass his side. He immediately clamped down on the other troll’s arm, catching it between his own. The mobster attempted to retaliate by punching with his other arm, but Hemogoblin caught his fist and then twisted his body, forcing the man’s grip to slacken and for the baton to clatter to the ground. The widening of the troll’s eyes was the only indication that he understood how screwed he was as Hemogoblin let go of one arm and spun, tossing him bodily over his shoulder with enough force to catapult him through the air in a mimicry of the two that John had thrown earlier. He smashed against the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far wall with a tremendous crash, the mirror shattering into a million pieces of glass that glittered like diamonds in the flashing lights normally meant to herald in strippers.

It was only because John had been watching the fight with such fascination that he immediately noticed something was wrong.

Hemogoblin seemed oblivious, though, as he sighed contentedly and languidly stretched his arms behind his back as he turned to give John a contented grin, saying, “I fucking needed that! Did you see the way that last one went flying? Could’ve hardly done better if I had your wind, I bet.”

Most of his words went ignored, however, as John slowly started walking closer to where the last Crew member had been thrown, the feeling of unease he’d had earlier coming back full force as his suspicions were confirmed.

The sounds of the thug’s unconscious body slumping to the ground hadn’t sounded right to his ears, because that’s not what had happened. As John looked on in silence, he took in the long, narrow walkway, and the body of the thug sprawled out on it. The long, narrow walkway that was showing through the now open hole where previously the mirror had stood. It took a few moments of processing before what he was seeing clicked, and when it did, he scoffed to himself softly.

By then, Hemogoblin had taken note of his silence and had joined him in staring, and it was he who spoke first. “That was smart. A two-way mirror. Explains the size of the building. Ten bucks says that’s where the rest of the head honchos are hiding.”

John sighed, lifting a hand up to scratch the back of his head under his hood. “I don’t doubt it. I also don’t doubt that they’re now very aware of our presence and are waiting for us with some kind of trap.”

Hemogoblin seemed remarkably calm about the possibility. “Yeah. I figured as much. How do you want to proceed?”

John furrowed his brow in thought for a moment before he decided to trust his gut and relaxed, offering his partner a smile through his mask. “Playing it by ear worked out for us the last time. Why fix what isn’t broken?”

Hemogoblin actually snorted at that, a sound which caused the smile on John’s face to spread even wider. “Yeah, sure, I have no problem with that.”

John nodded, leaning in to playfully bump Hemogoblin’s shoulder with his own before he strode forward to stand next to the remnants of the mirror, inspecting the hole. “Stay close to me. I’ll extend my wind barriers so we’re both covered, just in case.”

Hemogoblin grinned as he moved to stand next to John, offering him a heartfelt smile. “My knight in blue-grey armor. Whatever would I do without you?”

John felt the tension slowly easing from his gut, the troll’s words reminding him that no matter what happened, they were in this together. And with him by his side, they could probably take on an entire army, let alone whatever the Midnight Crew had to throw at them. “I dunno. Probably continue to be a total mysterious badass?”

Hemogoblin continued smiling at him for a few long moments before his grin turned mischievous and he offered John a forced scoff along with a nudge from his thigh. “Okay, enough of the sappy bullshit. We have bad guys to beat the shit out of.”

A laugh bubbled up out of John’s throat as he turned to regard the walkway in front of them. “You got it, partner.”

They both sidestepped the bruised and bleeding troll and advanced forward, John calling on the wind to cradle them both in its protective embrace. The iron grating of the walkway gave way to an intersection a short six feet away, the path to the right ending in a set of stairs leading up to the second floor, while the path to the left continued in a downwards-sloping set of stairs that apparently led to a basement floor. John’s head was on a swivel as they reached the edge of the intersection and the wall on either side of them ceased providing cover, his eyes darting to every conceivable location where an ambush could be found. Hemogoblin continued walking without him, however, going towards the edge of the walkway’s railing and peering out on the floor below, his iridescent eyes widening noticeably. Once John was assured that there wasn’t a sniper waiting to remove their heads from the stair landing above them, he joined Hemogoblin at the railing, eager to see what had caused his partner’s reaction. What he saw left his mouth hanging open.

Spread out below them was an open expanse of what resembled warehouse space, concrete floors stretching out in every direction. It was what was occupying those floors which had drawn the looks of shock and awe. There were hundreds of pieces of chemistry equipment filling over what looked to be at least three dozen long tables. There were beakers, burners, distilleries, and flasks filled with multi-colored chemicals. There were industrial ventilation hoods over work stations, with dozens of tubes and wires connected in complex patterns weaving in and out of tables, through complex steel machinery, and from between the legs of dozens of workers who wore nothing but surgical masks.

There was none of the same embarrassment to be found as John observed these workers. Their nudity wasn’t the same kind of nudity that they had witnessed in the club. Everyone on the floor below was moving with stiff, wearied motions, their eyes haggard and the bags under those eyes standing out like vicious bruises against pale skin that looked to rarely have seen the sun. There were no smiles, no small talk, as everyone seemed to go about their business in a kind of dazed but methodical stupor. Most of the workers seemed thin, almost to the point of emaciation, their cheeks hollow and their hair brittle. The fact that none of them had reacted to the sounds of a body crashing through glass was the final nail in the coffin, inexorably leading to a single conclusion: they weren’t here of their own volition. At the very least, they didn’t want to be here. The way that everyone was moving like zombies was highly suspect, and John didn’t put it past the Midnight Crew for a second to be doing something as monstrous as using drug-addicted labor to take care of their dirty business. He’d only read about this sort of thing and never seen it for himself, but it was apparently considered good practice in these sorts of illicit undertakings to use addicts. They were not the sort that would ever go to the police, for one, and by offering them a steady supply of their drug of choice but keeping them just strung along enough to function, you ensured both loyalty and a high work ethic. There was also the fact that people this addicted could disappear off the face of the earth, and most of the time they’d have nobody to make a stir at their vanishing. That last thought didn’t sit well in John’s stomach, as he recalled the police station and just how ruthless the Midnight Crew could be.

What was perhaps the most startling was what the workers were working on. The last few tables at the end of the hall were covered in large cardboard boxes, each one sealed neatly with packing tape, maybe a few hundred boxes in all. When John squinted his eyes to see the finished product that was going into the boxes, his breath hitched.

Two workers were shoving in case after case of carefully packed vials in styrofoam holders. Clear vials, with strands of a bright red material swirling languidly at their centers. Red Miles.

“God fucking damnit, holy shit,” Hemogoblin breathed out next to him, and John said nothing to show his agreement. There was no way that all of that was meant for Seattle alone. This was bigger than Seattle. This must have been _the_ manufacturing and distribution center for the entire country.

“Seriously? _Seriously_? Hidden drug manufacturing operation obviously employing meth-heads, hidden behind a false mirror in a seedy strip club? I know the Midnight Crew likes their trite, hackneyed bullshit, what with their stupid hats and 1920s mobster throwback suits, but this. This right here, this is some overused, movie-cliché hornbeast excrement. This is fucking garbage.”

It was an impressive rant, to be sure, but John didn’t miss the way Hemogoblin’s grip on the iron railing was hard enough to cause his biceps to bulge. He’d bet money that the troll’s grey knuckles would be turning white underneath his gloves. When Hemogoblin turned to look at him, John was ready for the anger shining in his eyes. But he wasn’t prepared for the worry and anxiety that framed the entirety of the troll’s face with indecision, his eyebrows drawn and his teeth worrying at his bottom lip.

“What do we do, Heir? You’ve been at this a lot longer than I have, and I’m kind of at a loss, here.”

John bit his own lip behind his mask, trying to weigh their options. They’d come into this wanting to avoid the police completely until they were assured that all of the key players were down for the count, but this changed things. His hand was already undoing the clasp on his left belt pouch and pulling out his phone before he’d realized he’d made the decision.

“This is above our pay grade. We need this entire place locked down immediately...damn it,” he cursed, tapping his phone in frustration. “I’m not getting any reception down here. You?”

Hemogoblin dug his own phone out of his thigh pouch and took a look. “No service,” he grumbled, pressing a few buttons. “Not even when trying to establish a 911 call. They must have signal blockers down here to prevent anyone from making contact.”

John huffed, shoving his phone back in his pouch. “We can’t afford the time it would take to run outside, make the call, and run back,” he said, switching his gaze from the diligent workers below to the stairway leading up behind them. “I don’t want to split up, and they could flee while we try.” Coming to a decision, John breathed in slowly, letting his lungs fill with the somewhat musty air of the room before he exhaled softly through his nose. The wind pulled slightly at his hair, letting him know that it was still curled protectively around them. “So this doesn’t change anything. We continue on with our plan. We just...move expeditiously.”

“Expeditiously. Right. Well then, what are we waiting for?” The troll didn’t wait for John’s reply as he turned on a pivot and walked back the way they’d come, not giving another look back at the manufacturing operation below them. He stopped once he got to the intersection, sending a glance over his shoulder as if to tell John to hurry up.

He’d have thought his partner was eager if he hadn’t already discerned the nervous tension in the set of the troll’s shoulders. That, more than anything, put a little kick in his step as he moved to stand next to Hemogoblin, his hand going up to momentarily squeeze the troll’s shoulder reassuringly. As soon as his hand dropped, they moved, stalking towards the stairwell together.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, John held his hand up, halting Hemogoblin in place. It made sense for him to go first, since it stood to reason that his barriers were the most suited to handling any kind of ambush.

John approached the stairs with caution, keenly aware of the disadvantages he was facing by having to traverse upwards. It was therefore with a bit of surprise that he reached the top of the stairs completely unmolested. Either the Midnight Crew bosses were very stupid, or very cocky.

The sight that greeted his eyes was unsettling, somehow. Pitch black-tinted glass stared him in the face, surrounding on all sides a metal door. That alone wasn’t anything special, and it took a few moments for him to pinpoint where, exactly, his unease was coming from. When he did, it caused him to grind his teeth in anxiety.

It was the feeling of eyes glued to his body. Combined with the slight tugging of the wind through his fingers, John was absolutely convinced that there were people directly behind those panes of tinted glass, and they were watching him. They were watching him, and there was a possibility that they were lining up their shots that very moment.

John piled on strength to his barrier as he extended his left arm behind him, collarbone offering up just the slightest amount of protest, and motioned for Hemogoblin to join him.

By the time the troll made it up, John was already testing the walls with the wind, sending gentle currents of air up under the door to probe for what lay beyond. Moments later, the wind confirmed his suspicions.

There were nine people inside as far as he could tell, all facing the door. Which, if his hunch about the windows was true, meant that they were already very aware of the two heroes’ presence. That they hadn’t already opened fire was good news, he supposed, or else it just meant there was an even bigger trap waiting for them once they crossed the threshold. The wind hadn’t reported anything of the sort in the entryway’s vicinity, so he guessed they’d just have to find out the old-fashioned way.

“I’ve got at least nine people pegged as being inside, and I’m pretty sure they’re aware of us,” he mumbled, gaze not leaving the door in front of him.

Hemogoblin huffed softly, his body tensing as he processed the situation. He was quiet for several long moments before he spoke. “Well, it’s like you said; we don’t exactly have time to dally, so…” he trailed off, letting John fill in the blanks.

Giving the troll a nod, John steeled himself before stepping forward and twisting the door handle.

There was no urgent tug from the wind, no shouts from the occupants, just the slight squeak as the door swung inwards on hinges that needed oiling. That didn’t mean there wasn’t danger, though.

The first thing to greet John’s eyes was a thick, lush-looking beige carpet. All other observations of his surrounding were put on hold, however, as the door swung open a little further, and he was met with the tensed form of a Midnight Crew member.

John immediately took in all of the details about the man that he could, his brain instantly cataloguing and classifying the gangster as a potential threat. The man had a gun in his hands and his entire body language screamed a preparedness to draw, but for now the gun was pointed away from them and at the ground. As the door opened even further, he was greeted to the sight of five other similarly-dressed Crew members, each with a weapon drawn but not actively hostile. It was the three mobsters standing behind a large, ornate walnut desk that drew the most scrutiny. Well, two were standing. One was seated.

His mind instantly labeled them as the leaders. They were holding themselves differently, bodies much more relaxed than the common thugs around them. It didn’t hurt that John immediately recognized Boxcars standing on the left, the man’s face still bruised and just as ugly as their last encounter, an angry sneer further marring his countenance.

Opposite Boxcars on the right side of the seated mobster was a troll John had yet to encounter. There was a bright pink diamond pinned to the lapel of his immaculately tailored suit, which was a bit at odds with the rather bored look tugging at the corners of his mouth, his green eyes staring out with tired apathy from a rather aristocratic face. There was intelligence in those eyes, but the troll seemed content to just stay back and observe the two heroes with a cool indifference. The only hint of his disdain for the pair in front of him was a delicately raised eyebrow. Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette he held between his lips although he made no hurry to pull his next drag.

Between the two was a man with one of the nastiest scowls John had ever seen. He was dressed in the typical attire of a Midnight Crew thug, except his shirt was a dark grey that contrasted nicely to match with the black spade pinned to his lapel. Dark brown eyes set against tanned skin glared at him with such intensity that John had to fight back the urge to shift uncomfortably under their scrutiny. He looked like he could be his father’s age, give or take a few years, though he exuded none of the quiet strength or authority that the elder Egbert emanated seemingly without effort. The only feeling this man radiated was an intense hatred, the kind of emotion that made John’s stomach curdle just to contemplate.

What was most striking about the man wasn’t physical, however, but the way in which he handled the long, thin blade in his left hand. The mobster didn’t even seem to be giving the knife an ounce of his attention, and yet the blade was twirling and spinning through deft fingers as easily as a pencil in a high school debate student’s hand. The man made it look as if it were the simplest of bored habits, which is what John realized the display must have been. It was somewhat intimidating to witness, even knowing that he could’ve snatched the blade from the man’s hands with the wind before he was able to do anything with it.

When the men seemed content to just glare moodily and nobody made any indication of open hostility, John took a few tentative steps into the room, Hemogoblin close on his heels. When there was no reaction from the mobsters, he let his eyes sweep across the room quickly, taking note of the layout and formulating how he could use it to his advantage were the situation to turn pear-shaped. The desk in front of them was stacked high with both papers and a mound of rubber-banded cash, the money bumping shoulders with several crystal decanters filled with amber liquor. There was a large candy dish filled with some form of licorice next to an ornate ashtray that was in dire need of emptying. All of the other furniture seemed to have been pushed to the sides to provide a clear view of the door from whence they’d entered, a well-stocked bar built into the wall to John’s immediate right. A quick glance at the left wall revealed a large, tinted window overlooking the manufacturing operation below, while the window on the right wall looked out from the second floor of the club down onto the main stage. John wasn’t sure how they’d missed that in their first inspection of the club, but it was probably camouflaged, as the two-way mirror downstairs had been. The window offered up a perfect view of the entrance they’d used to enter the club, he noted.

The unmistakable thwock of knife meeting resistance snapped John’s attention back to the front of the room, where he saw that the tip of the man’s blade was now buried at least half an inch in the wood of his desk, the handle still quivering from the violence with which it was driven down. Neither hero gave any outward indication of having been startled, but their attention had definitely been commanded.

“Well well, it’s about time you two quit jerking each other off and decided to show your faces. We’ve been waiting for at least twenty minutes since you poked your mugs through my door,” the man in the middle grunted, his deep voice grating roughly at John’s ears as he turned his head slightly to indicate the club entrance.

John kept his eyes glued on the gangster.

With a snap, a butterfly knife appeared in the man’s hand—this time his right—the blade flashing open as he executed a series of complex spins and twists absentmindedly. John was a bit thrown by this, as he hadn’t actually been able to see how he’d retrieved the knife. It was like one moment his hand had been empty, and then the next it was occupied. He decided to split his attention between the man and the knife embedded in the desk, just in case he decided to utilize his apparent speed and attempt a throw.

“Why’d you stay and wait, then? We weren’t going anywhere,” Hemogoblin sounded from behind John’s left.

The mobster scoffed derisively. “You two walked in looking like you expected to get a fucking medal, or something, for following some straightforward directions and finding this place.”

The look that must have crossed one or both of their faces as he confirmed the Crew’s lack of surprise at their raid caused the man’s visage to morph from a look of loathing into an amused sneer. “What? You didn’t think I’d know that the moron would talk? It ain’t exactly rocket science to deduce when the patrols failed to report in and yet we didn’t get to see fireworks. And you two are a couple of goody-goodies who would definitely ask questions before you knocked a guy’s block off. So give me some fucking credit.”

John’s hands tightened into fists, his anxiety skyrocketing and the wind curling around him protectively in response, some of the papers on the desk starting to ruffle softly in the unseen drifts.

“You didn’t answer his question,” John growled out. “Why stay and wait? There’s no way you could be dumb enough to ignore a threat, and you didn’t exactly make it a challenge for us to get up here. Weren’t you worried we’d bring your operation down?”

An ugly laugh bubbled out of the man’s throat, his lips again curling up into a sneer. “To answer your first question, I waited because I wanted to. I want this over, and I want it over tonight. Oh, sure, we could’ve drawn this whole thing out for weeks,” he grunted, bringing both of his hands up in a flippant shrug. The butterfly knife was still twirling languidly in his right. “We could’ve torn this whole city down until it was nothin’ but a bunch of dust and bricks before you ever saw us face-to-face. But that’s not my style,” he grinned, chestnut eyes glinting dangerously. “Why piss where you’re going to eat? This is my city, now. And when I want something important done in my city, it’s obviously better that I handle it myself. So I let you come to me.”

“You’ve made a mistake by taking us lightly,” John returned, his indignation at being underestimated tinging his retort with no small amount of vitriol. “We’re going to stop you, for good.”

Another laugh, this one more grimly amused and drawn out than the first. The knife came down, twisting in the air and into a tight grip before it was stabbed down beside the first, the unlocked handles falling to thump against the desk with small clicks. “As to your second question, you think anything you do here is actually going to matter in the long run? Anything at all? The Midnight Crew is bigger than you can even imagine, kid.”

He leaned back, stretching his arms out as if to emphasize and encompass their influence. “We control practically half of this country already. We have a presence in most any major city you’d care to name, from the East Coast to the West. If through some stroke of absurd luck you actually manage to put us down today, you’ll only be stalling us temporarily. It may not be under my watch that it happens, but it’ll happen. Others will move in, fill in the vacuum that we leave, and you’ll be worn down through attrition. Sooner or later, this city will fall.” That sickly grin was back, stretching the man’s face in an ugly mockery of amusement. “You can’t fight the inevitable, hero. This city’s fate was set the moment we arrived, because we’re the real deal and you’re just a couple of kiddies running around in tights.”

There was a soft, angry growl from beside him and John acted on instinct, shooting his hand out in the direction of his partner. His hand made contact with the troll’s thigh, stilling him immediately. When John turned his head slightly to look at Hemogoblin out of the corner of his vision, though, he could still see an angry gleam in his effulgent eyes, and his muscles were very clearly coiled tight like a predator preparing to spring forward at its prey. John held his gaze on the troll’s face just long enough for their eyes to meet before he turned once more to the mobsters, his hand going back to his side. He wondered idly if anyone else had picked up on the droplet of blood slowly cascading down his partner’s left hand, and if anyone understood the possible significance.

“Sorry to burst your ego’s bubble, but you were right when you said this ends tonight, and it won’t have anything to do with luck.”

The gangster said nothing for several long moments before he gestured to the side and one of the lackeys approached the desk carrying a small box. As his hand went to open the box and retrieve the object inside, John readied the wind to snatch a weapon from his hands. But instead of the familiar black shape of a handgun, he withdrew something sleeker, more compact. It only took a second for John’s brain to identify what he was seeing: it was an injector, identical to the one they had left at the safehouse. Red threads swirled around in a full vial of clear liquid.

Fuck. John stilled the wind, suddenly unconfident of the wind’s ability to snatch the gun before it was utilized.

“Do you know what this is, hero?” When John did nothing except grit his teeth behind his mask, the mobster’s expression morphed into something more congenial. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a more didactic affectation, obviously meant to be mocking. “Ah, if that look is anything to go by, you do. Curious. I wonder where you encountered it? I didn’t think we’d left any with the idiot, none of this batch, anyway. Still, it never hurts to make proper introductions, does it? This, gentlemen, is Red Miles, the latest and greatest in combat-enhancing drugs. Red Miles three-point-oh, if you want to be technical,” he announced, gesturing to the injector as if he were a salesman showing off his wares. “When injected into the bloodstream, its effects are instantaneous, causing a drastic increase in both muscle mass and aggression and flooding the body with adrenaline. Even the weakest peon can be turned into a juggernaut on this shit. And we’ve got the market completely cornered,” he grinned, again reminding John of some type of slimy salesman. “Hell, we _are_ the market. That little lab outside? That’s just a taste of the operation we’re establishing. This may be the first city to get a sampling of the Miles, but before you know it, labs like this one will be popping up everywhere. Soon there will be hundreds, thousands, even, sprouting out of the ground like goddamn Starbucks. Red Miles is the future, and it’s a future where you and every other do-gooding, law-loving piece of shit is fucked.”

John felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face underneath his hood, and it had nothing to do with the temperature inside the office. _Holy shit_ , this guy was crazy. Nobody could spout out destruction-of-society-as-we-know-it crap like that and still be sane. That was one hundred percent not how sanity worked. He didn’t even want to acknowledge the man’s words for what they were because if he was right about the size and scope of things, the first thing they’d be needing to do tonight after this was over would be to give a deposition to the feds. Or ATF. Or Homeland Security, or just _someone_. National drug-smuggling rings with a side goal of collapsing society was _so_ far beyond his pay grade, it wasn’t funny. An unimpressed voice sounding to his side cut through his thoughts.

“Are you done monologuing, yet?” For all intents and purposes, Hemogoblin looked and sounded the picture of bored ambivalence. Gone was the anger from his eyes, replaced by something colder. They were still shimmering with their usual neon gloss, but the light behind them was smoldering, like the glowing embers left after a coal fire. “Because really, it’s not like we have all night for this shit, or anything.”

A flick of those eyes to meet John’s told him everything he needed to know about the troll’s plans, as did the gathered blood near the palm of his left hand. The time for pleasantries was over.

John squared his shoulders, took a slow breath, and pushed back all of his emotions and worry to a place in his mind where they could remain unheeded for the duration of the ensuing battle.

The gangster wasn’t amused by Hemogoblin’s dismissal, apparently. “Droog?” The man behind the desk—who by process of elimination must have been Slick—held his free hand up, palm outwards. John was a bit confused at the non-threatening gesture as this was generally when the assorted thugs surrounding them would open fire, but nothing of the sort happened as the man looked over his shoulder to the troll on his left, now identified as Droog.

Droog said nothing in response, but very slowly and deliberately snuffed his cigarette out on the ashtray in front of him, and then carefully popped the buttons of his jacket open. He next undid the knot of his tie, removed it from around his neck, and folded it neatly in Slick’s open hand. Next to go was his jacket, which he similarly folded and draped over Slick’s hand.

John spared a glance to Hemogoblin to see what the troll’s reaction to all of this was, but the action cost him dearly. As soon as he saw his partner’s eyes widen in alarm, he knew he’d made a mistake. He turned back just in time to see Droog pushing his sleeve up to reveal grey skin. By the time what was happening clicked and John had thrown out an arm encased in a tendril of wind, it was too late.

At the same time as the wind roared out and rushed across the open space to reach the desk, Slick moved, the speed he’d demonstrated earlier with his knives making a full showing as he shoved the injector firmly to Droog’s forearm and depressed the trigger without hesitation.

The vial was already empty by the time the wind grabbed the injector and sent it clattering to the floor.

John moved to re-gather his wind in an attempt to take Droog out of the picture before the transformation started, but his focus was shattered as the more common members surrounding the pair reacted to his desperate bid.

Guns were brought to bear and John instantly pulled his wind back with a snap to reinforce his and Hemogoblin’s barriers, but the troll was already moving.

John turned just in time to witness the glob of gravity-defying blood floating around his partner’s wrist solidify into a throwing knife, which Hemogoblin instantly threw in one smooth, unerring motion into the shoulder of the thug nearest him, causing the man to drop his gun with a cry and sink to the floor. John would have taken the time to be impressed that the right-handed troll had made the left-handed throw look elegant, except Hemogoblin was already bounding forward to finish the job and the wind chose that moment to throw him to the side, a hail of bullets peppering his former location.

Trusting his partner to be able to take care of himself, John followed the pull of the wind and zipped to the other side of the room and under the granite bar top, the thugs trying futilely to track him with their shots.

Poor trigger discipline, John thought, as fire from the first two thugs ceased and their guns started clicking, signifying the need to reload. He took that as the opportunity it was and barreled low under the bar where he knew the group was located, catching them mid-reload. The troll immediately in front looked up just as John appeared before him, only to be met with a ferocious punch to the gut that almost folded the besuited thug in half over the hero’s fist as his body bowed to accept the force.

The troll was blown backwards head over ass to land in a heap on the carpet just as his partner abandoned his hasty reloading and took a swing at John with the butt of his weapon. John halted the swing by slapping his forearm against the inside of the human thug’s arm, the metal of his armguard biting into his skin as John then pivoted and brought his knee upwards into the man’s abdomen, his breath leaving him in a sudden whoosh not unlike a teakettle removed from its burner. The teen followed that up with an elbow smash to his face, dropping him to the ground.

The wind tugged his head to the right and a knife passed by his right cheek by mere centimeters as a third assailant made herself known. Not caring for a repeat of his partner’s earlier performance of a drawn-out brawl against a less-skilled opponent, John ducked low and grabbed her knee, using the momentum of his rise to lift and throw the female to the ground, which he followed up with a smart rap on the head to put her under.

He was just in time to see Hemogoblin taking down the last of his opponents when the ominous sound of ripping and tearing grabbed his attention and focused him in on the three behind the desk like a precision homing laser.

Slick and Boxcars were still more or less in their same positions, though Slick had pushed his chair back and was watching Droog with interest, and Boxcars was glaring with undisguised hatred at the ease with which they’d dismantled their foes.

Droog, though. Just as had happened before, the troll’s body was deforming while they watched, his muscles bulging and popping with stomach-wrenching squelches that seemed anything but natural. What had once been a tall but fit troll in a sharp dress shirt and expensive-looking pants was now only vaguely recognizable as a troll. The muscles in his shoulders were bulging so significantly that they had ripped the seams on his dress shirt, exposing extended veins of jade green pulsing in an angry rhythm. His cuffs were similarly destroyed, along with all of the buttons that were meant to hold the garment closed. His pants weren’t in any better shape, with the seams splitting up the sides and exposing grotesquely bulging calf muscles. All in all, he looked like a _monster_.

All of the similarities between this monster and the one they’d faced earlier ended at the physical, however. Whereas the female troll had been irate to the point of ferity, the creature that Droog had become still seemed to possess its faculties. At the very least, he wasn’t panting and slobbering in rage, so that was an improvement.

John’s observations were validated moments later when, with a pained grunt, Droog straightened, cracked his neck from side to side, and fixed a pair of eyes on him that were completely unchanged from before the transformation. An intense gaze of jade flickered to his injured arm for a single breath before cracked lips quirked into a small but cruel smile.

John’s entire body went on instant alert as the wind started shouting in his ear.

It almost wasn’t enough.

Faster than any being with that kind of mass had any reasonable right to be, Droog went from standing to propelling himself across the room with his shoulder already tucked for a tackle.

John had just enough time to drop into a defensive stance and project a cone of wind in front of himself before Droog was upon him, smashing into his wind barrier with all the force of a rampaging bull. The barrier held for all of a fraction of a second before Newton’s Third reared its ugly head and John was propelled back into the wall from the fierce backlash. He had only a moment to gather his wits and attempt to reaffix his barrier before Droog smashed into him again, this time forcing the both of them _through_ the wall, sending them plummeting to the lab below.

////

Hemogoblin stared at the hole where Heir had been moments before in muted horror, his first instinct to run to the breach and check on his partner’s safety. A noise of disgust coming from Slick had him pulling up short before he could even make a move, however.

“Tsk. And here I was hoping to see their fight for myself. It’s not every day you get to witness your right-hand man bitchslap a superhero in ‘roid rage. Pity,” he murmured, having the gall to shake his head back and forth in concern as if this was a genuinely upsetting turn of events.

“Listen here, you festering argument for late-term abortions, you—” he began, only to be interrupted by Slick’s scandalized chiding.

“My, oh my! Such language!” he scolded, clucking his tongue theatrically like a mother hen. “Where were these insults when your partner was still here? Didn’t feel comfortable cursing around such a do-gooder?” he mocked, absentmindedly reaching forward and yanking loose the standard knife embedded in his desk. “You keep wagging your tongue like that and I’ll have to cut it out.”

Hemogoblin narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Don’t even bother, boss. This little punk is mine,” Boxcars growled out, stepping forward while digging out a pair of knuckledusters from inside his coat. “I owe them both good for what they did to my last pair a’ knuckles.”

“Don’t forget what we did to your face, too,” Hemogoblin helpfully added, a vindictively amused sneer stretching his lips. “But if you want a repeat beating, then by all means, be my guest.”

“I take it back,” Slick laughed. “I like this one. Put him down like a dog, Hearts.”

The mobster chose not to respond verbally, instead pressing his choice of weapon down hard against his hands to make sure that they were snug against his knuckles. He advanced on the black and crimson-clad troll with agile steps that belied his lumbering appearance, his hands coming up into a boxer’s ready stance, arms tucked in to both present a guard and to ready his fists for jabs.

Hemogoblin adopted a rough imitation of the stance, shifting his legs to allow for both support and for quick, springy movements, his hands snapping up into a primed guard. That was all the invitation Boxcars needed as he shot forward and delivered a devastating right cross to the troll’s guard in an attempt to plow through his defenses. He didn’t notice the cocky smirk that briefly stole across Hemogoblin’s face.

Rather than attempt to dodge as he’d already proven capable of in their previous fight, the hero allowed the punch to hit. It was all worth it for the look of shock and confusion on the mobster’s face when, instead of the sound of splintering bone and a clear opening to the troll’s chest like he’d clearly expected, he was met with a completely unmoved opponent.

“If you were expecting me to be doubled over in pain, you should probably consider that the iron in my veins is harder than whatever shit-metal those things are made of,” he said with a smug grin. “It does take a moment of concentration to get right, so thanks for telegraphing your moves and everything.”

Boxcars frowned and then pulled back for another punch, though this one, too, smashed against the troll’s raised forearm with little effect. In return, the hero flipped his wrist around and slid his hand around the mobster’s beefy arm before yanking backwards with no small amount of force, his fingers deftly forcing the man’s hand open and coaxing the knuckleduster off all in one smooth, slick motion in a display that would’ve made a street magician green with envy.

“Just because you’re not causing damage doesn’t mean that your blows don’t hurt like a bitch, though, so if you could not then that’d be great,” he chided, tossing the liberated weapon behind his shoulder carelessly.

With a wordless snarl, the behemoth of a man lashed out with his left fist, his earlier composure gone in the face of his indignity at having been humiliated and stripped of one of his weapons so easily.

His retaliation wasn’t to be, however, as Hemogoblin weaved to the side with a dancer’s grace, avoiding the fist completely. The troll’s hands lashed out one-two with the precision and speed of a striking cobra, the mobster receiving a knifehand strike to his inner elbow that had the joint bending inwards followed by a quick strike to his wrist, his entire arm being thrust upwards and his guard opening completely. The hero didn’t stop there, using the newly opened hole in the man’s defenses to throw his right elbow directly into his solar plexus, instantly paralyzing his diaphragm.

Boxcars threw out his right hand to try and ward off the troll while he struggled to catch his breath, but it was for naught as Hemogoblin dropped down and delivered a closed fist directly to the man’s knee, dropping him to one foot with a sickening crunch. From there, all it took was a knee to the side of the head and Boxcars was out of the game.

The entirety of the rapid-fire exchange had lasted mere seconds, the full encounter having persisted no longer than a minute.

Slick looked less than pleased.

“Fucking idiot,” he growled, sparing the downed thug a derisive glare before leveling a grimace at the troll. “You’re a quick son of a bitch, huh?”

Hemogoblin shrugged his shoulders, shaking out the hand he’d used to incapacitate the large man’s kneecap. “He should’ve known better than to fight me a second time after showing me his fighting style. All things considered, he really wasn’t that good once you get beyond the fact that his fat ass didn’t have any business being as fast as he was.”

Slick brought a hand up to massage his forehead, an expression of annoyed weariness on his face. “Incompetents. I’m surrounded by incompetents, and I’m painfully reminded of this fact daily. Fuck,” he sighed, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. “Looks like I’m going to have to settle this myself, aren’t I?” The question was punctuated with a casual flick of his wrist, the knife he’d grabbed earlier twirling in the air for a full second before he caught it by the handle deftly, the exercise as smooth and as practiced as a circus performer’s. “How d’your ‘iron veins’ or whatever hold up against knife slashes, by the way?”

If Hemogoblin was at all disconcerted by the casual manner in which the gangster appeared to be taking things, he didn’t let it show as he cracked his neck from side to side, his arms once again coming up into a solid guard, his body going rigid. “If I told you that they rendered knives completely useless, would you surrender quietly?” Not that they did, as far as he knew.

Slick’s answering guffaw told him enough.

The troll let out a soft huff, his shoulders rising and falling in a half-hearted gesture of feigned annoyance. He may have had an amused grin on his face, but his eyes were hard, completely glued on the opponent in front of him. “Oh well. It was worth a try.”

“Was it?” Slick snarked.

Before the hero could respond, Slick’s arm sliced forward through the air and let loose his blade, the implement flying straight and true.

////

With the wind’s help, John had just enough time to reverse positions with the transmogrified troll before they slammed into the unforgiving steel of a long, latticed walkway suspended perhaps a dozen feet directly above the heads of the workers below. The creature that was Droog let out an ungainly grunt at the impact as he was sandwiched between unyielding steel and John’s not inconsiderable weight, the air momentarily driven from his lungs.

Whereas before the workers in the lab below had felt it prudent to ignore whatever was happening in the world above them, now they scrambled and fled like frightened mice, the very real threat of violence scaring them from their work.

John rolled off the troll, gritting his teeth hard to fight off the waves of agony that radiated from his clavicle like a physical force. Both the wind and he had done their best to insure that he’d barreled into Droog with his good shoulder, but that hadn’t been enough to stop the resulting shockwaves from saturating his body and resonating pure misery all along his left side.

The precious seconds he’d been bought by winding Droog were wasted as he did his best to refocus himself and block off the pain. By the time he’d managed to crawl carefully onto all fours, Droog was already lumbering to his feet, his bulbous hands dwarfing the metal railings of the walkway as if they were toothpicks as he leveraged himself to standing.

The wind howled and tugged at him to move, but he was unable to do anything except throw up a barrier as Droog delivered a vicious kick to his chest that lifted John several feet into the air. He landed with a painful cry on his back several yards away.

John lay where he landed, dazed, as Droog stomped his way over. The hero cracked an eye open to see a smug, self-satisfied look on the troll’s face as he loomed over him, unable to express his sentiments in words but clearly gloating over his perceived victory.

John almost wanted to roll his eyes. If Droog thought that this was all the fight he had in him, he was in for a rude awakening.

Unseen by the troll, John sent out a tendril of wind to wrap around the walkway’s supports. Droog was moments away from bringing his fists down in an indelicate smash when John pulled as hard as he possibly could, the wind acting as a solid, physical force and shearing the retaining bolts from the support structure in a single, devastating move. The metal, already twisted and bent from Droog’s earlier impact, gave way.

The walkway splintered in half not six feet away from where John was holding onto the grating with stiff fingers, sending Droog tumbling down below and flinging heavy steel panels crashing to the ground in a horrendous cacophony. The cables that were threaded along the walkway’s sides were torn from their moorings, several snapping in half and showering the ground below with sparks as the ends danced and hissed with electricity, their movements more deadly than any snake. If John had had any wherewithal, he’d have been concerned about the sparks igniting some of the myriad of chemicals littered about the lab, but as it stood, he was much more bothered by the need to hold on for dear life as the walkway continued to list and groan.

When his section of the walkway finally fell moments later, the teen had enough wits about him to push off in midair and allow the wind to catch him in its embrace, though it was a very near thing as he’d narrowly avoided being skewered by an errant steel beam.

He hovered in place for a moment as he thanked his good fortune at having been spared an unwanted new piercing, before he turned to look at where Droog had fallen. Only to discover that Droog was no longer there.

The tugging of the wind at his side coincided with an otherworldly roar, and John snapped his head to the side just in time to witness the troll leaping from off one of the lab tables directly at him. Unfortunately for Droog, the air was John’s domain.

All it took was a slight dip in his position and suddenly Droog was overshooting the teen. Rather than allow him this simple miss, however, John solidified his stance, waiting until the perfect moment where Droog was in reach, and then he was grabbing the troll’s bulky arm and redirecting his momentum towards the ground in a modified Judo throw.

When Droog hit the worktable directly below them, it was with a ground-shaking rumble that immediately collapsed the legs of the table and reduced it to nothing but a pile of splinters. John drifted closer to the body when he noted that the troll wasn’t in any hurry to extricate himself from the mess.

His right hand reached back to graze over Casey’s handle as he prepared to do what was necessary to finish the fight then and there, but as soon as his hand wrapped around the leather shaft, his body froze, the memory of crunching ribs echoing in his ears.

That hesitation was all the time Droog needed to recover. John was snapped out of his daze as Droog lashed out and wrapped a meaty hand around his ankle, the troll immediately launching him into another table full of lab gear.

John couldn’t help the gasp that stole from his lungs as his back impacted harshly against a metal fume hood, the angle causing Casey to once again bite into his flesh as she had in the wake of the warehouse explosion a few nights previous.

Droog wasn’t done with him yet, however.

Bounding across the room to where John was just starting to fall from the painful crater he’d caused in the hood’s metal surface, the troll reared back and let loose a punch directly at his face. John had just enough cognizance to throw out a weak parry against the mobster’s inner arm, just barely managing to redirect Droog’s fist into the hood beside his head.

Seizing the chance, John grit his teeth and burst forward with a surge of adrenaline and lashed out with a knee, managing to catch Droog directly in the crook of his neck. To his shock and dismay, his blow caused no visible damage except to stagger the mutated creature back a few paces.

Pushing off, the teen fought through the protesting of his back and launched a kick, this time seeking the troll’s somewhat normal throat as that had proven to be a weakness on the Miles user they’d fought earlier. Droog was quick on the uptake, though, and brought a hand up to block the kick along with the follow-up elbow throw that the hero sent at the side of his head.

With the troll’s hands preoccupied, John latched onto the man’s leg with a tendril of wind and gave it a hard yank, but the same wind which had shortly ago proven strong enough to shear metal did nothing except unbalance the heavy fighter, not enough to topple him but enough for John to be able to disengage and put some distance between them.

John’s azure eyes flashed frustration as he leapt back and tried to catch his breath, his body aching and protesting his movements. He took the time to observe his opponent to look for any notable weaknesses, but was disheartened to see that beyond the rips and tears in his suit (which coincided with a similar array of rips and tears on his _own_ suit, damn it), the troll appeared almost entirely unscathed. There was a smug grin stretching his lips which looked decidedly creepy with the skewed proportions of his head, and John could just barely hear a rasping chuckle starting to come from the thing’s throat.

John’s gaze narrowed as he shoved all signs of his own trepidation away and buried them deeply, all thoughts of his aches and pains forgotten. He would beat this creature, because he had no other choice. He had a partner who was relying on him, who by now was facing down two incredibly dangerous opponents, alone. And John wasn’t going to leave him to it by himself.

Still, that was proving easier said than done.

////

Dodging the knife proved to be a relatively simple task because of the distance from which it was thrown. Hemogoblin shifted his head to the side with almost lazy ease, his eyebrow raising and a sassy retort on his lips at the foolishness of the straightforward attack. What he wasn’t prepared for was the follow-up knife thrown in the wake of the first and aimed at exactly where he had dodged, this one just narrowly avoiding grazing his ear as his knees bent in a desperate bid to get away from the projectile. By the time he snapped back up into a fighting position, Slick was already upon him, another pair of knives occupying both of his hands.

Slick attacked like lightning, his right hand sweeping out in a blur of speed to slash at the troll’s neck. Had Hemogoblin been a millisecond slower, the fight would have been over then and there. As it stood, he managed to lean back enough to avoid the knife’s reach, but was unable to twist his body out of the way of the knife in the gangster’s left hand, which scored a nasty gash along the ride side of his abdomen.

Hemogoblin ignored the strike completely, however, and it was with some consternation that Slick noted that no blood wept from the wound as he’d expected. If he had been able to divert his attention to study the wound, he would have seen the shallow cut knitting itself back together before his eyes. He was too distracted from dodging the troll’s retaliatory high kick to pay it any heed, though.

Hemogoblin did his best to press the offensive by lashing out with a series of quick jabs aimed at various points on the man’s body, though each one was blocked and diverted with no large difficulty by the human gangster. If anything, Slick seemed to kick his game up a notch as he blocked a rising knee aimed for his stomach with the flat of one of his blades, the smirk that stole across his face saying that he very easily could have made that much more painful if he had chosen.

The troll was forced to go on the defensive as Slick reversed grips on one of his blades and attempted another slash. At the same time, the man drove his other blade forward in a stab that would skewer the vigilante’s liver if it hit.

The hero was given no other option than to choose the lesser of two pains and raised his left arm up to take the swipe in order to allow him to maneuver his hips away from the stab, the bite of the first blade immediately shooting fire along his veins.

He’d been stupid running his mouth to Boxcars and revealing the flaw in his iron defensive technique, as now Slick wasn’t giving him the chance to stay still and concentrate. Not that it would have necessarily done much good, other than preventing the blade from biting too deeply into his flesh. Still, the wounds he’d received so far were superficial and took no more than a slight bit of effort to heal. Honestly, he was more pissed about the growing number of rips and tears in his suit; that shit was almost impossible to patch!

The situation changed yet again as Slick flipped the first blade back into a forward grip and started lashing out with jabs meant to stab. Hemogoblin had his hands full redirecting blows and twisting out of the way of the flashing weapons.

All it took was a simple slip-up for one of the knives to finds its way home into the meaty flesh of the troll’s abdomen.

The resulting jolt of pain stole the hero’s breath away as he leaped backwards to put distance between the two of them, the feeling of deep cold seeping into his guts incredibly disconcerting. The fact that the blade had been released and was still sticking out of him from the hilt was probably more disturbing, however.

Going against what standard field medicine said was appropriate to do in this situation, Hemogoblin grabbed the hilt and yanked quickly, removing the blade from his insides. The blade, of course, came out looking pristine, not a drop of blood clinging to its edge. Biting back a whimper, the troll threw the weapon behind him to bounce off the floor in a clatter, his hands going to the wound to try and exert pressure.

The blood had clotted instantly, naturally, but that didn’t change the fact that his insides had been damaged and that hurt like the biggest son of a bitch ever.

“Fuck,” the troll groaned, doing his utmost best to at least will the wound closed. It would take at least a minute or two before any tears in his muscles were healed enough for anything more strenuous than standing in one place, but at least, his blood told him, nothing serious had been hit. “You are a sadistic fucker if that’s the kind of shit you like to do to people.”

The grin that spread across the gangster’s face told him more than enough about what he thought about that. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Pain is only transitory. I’ll make sure you don’t hurt anymore, soon enough,” he laughed, sounding delighted by the banter.

“Okay, wow, that wasn’t incredibly creepy, or anything,” Hemogoblin groaned, trying to milk every second of recovery that he could out of the man’s ego. “You say things like that to all the trolls you stab?”

“Only the pretty ones,” Slick said with a leer and a wink, sending a shudder up and down the troll’s spine.

“You don't exactly live up to your name, do you, Slick?” Hemogoblin groused, offering the criminal a deadpan stare. He hoped his expression masked the twinges of pain that rocked his body as the icy heat in his belly turned fiery, his muscles reconnecting and nerve endings coming alive. The troll made an experimental stretch as he lifted his arms above his head as if to release shoulder tension. This also had the benefit of twisting his torso ever so slightly, allowing him to test how much movement he’d regained thus far. He was pleased to note that while things were still tight and still very much painful, his movement wasn’t actually being hampered any.

Slick’s countenance gained a put-upon frown. “Aw, I’m hurt, buttercup. You need to be more careful with that tongue of yours. You could really hurt a guy’s feelings, you know. Now me,” he sighed, letting the remaining knife in his hand drop to the floor. “Me, I definitely prefer a blade when it comes to hurting others, as you know. Really lets you get up close and intimate. See, this,” he said, reaching behind his back and pulling out an absurdly wicked-looking blade. Hemogoblin recognized it immediately as a karambit, the knife closely resembling a raptor claw with a large ring at the end of it. Something cold and hard settled in the bottom of his stomach at the sight of the weapon, as that was not the kind of thing he wanted to go up against in the hands of a master. “This is my pride and joy. You ever seen what one of these can do to flesh? A well-placed cut can slice you to the bone as if your skin was made of warm butter. You probably won’t even feel the pain, at first,” he espoused conversationally, holding the blade up for the troll to see.

“You are a crazy fuck,” Hemogoblin growled, crossing his arms over his hips and bringing them down diagonally so that they cut across his spikes, easily ripping through the already-abused fabric of his costume. From the sides of his wrists sprouted curved, flat blades. He wasn’t about to try and match an experienced knife-fighter blade for blade, but his area of lethality was now effectively doubled, making things at least somewhat balanced between them.

Regardless, he didn’t exactly like his odds for coming out of this unscathed. As Slick launched himself back towards the troll, Hemogoblin raised his arms, the burning along his wound causing an idea to rapidly form in the back of his mind.

////

The stool that was thrown at his head was easily dodged, as was the set of liquid-filled test tubes, the glass tinkling off the floor in a cascade of shrapnel. The next stool exploded into splinters as it met a wind-encased fist, John plowing directly through it in an attempt to lay a blow on the enraged Droog.

The gangster had the prescience to not take the blow head-on, but instead shifted to take the blow to his side, his own fist lashing out to catch John on the chin with an uppercut.

The teen’s ever-present wind barrier helped to take the brunt of the blow so that his head was merely snapped back rather than ripped from his shoulders. His physical connection with the wind allowed John to roll with the blow in an attempt to mitigate as much of the force as possible, his body bending at the waist and turning the move into a quick handstand, which John was quick to capitalize on as he spun and lashed out with a kick to the troll’s face—a move made possible by the wind’s firm embrace.

Taken by surprise, Droog received the full force of the blow directly to his face, the cartilage in his nose breaking with a sickening crunch. John didn’t stop to celebrate his first successful blow of the fight, but he pressed the attack with a flurry of blows to the troll’s stomach as soon as he was right-side up again.

The troll weathered the attack with a series of annoyed grunts, his left hand snapping up to latch onto the hero’s shoulder and toss him to the side hard enough to whip the teen’s neck painfully.

John was thrown against the ground like a stone across water, his body skipping several times over the unforgiving floor before his momentum was arrested by forceful introduction to an unfortunately placed table. The articles on the table crashed to the ground in an explosion of shattered glass beakers and pungent chemicals. Even through his mask, John’s nose was at once assaulted by noxious fumes that had his head reeling and spinning before he was able to shove himself backwards away from the growing puddle of chemicals spreading out across the floor. His vision was still swimming as he backed into a solidly-built lab bench, stopping him in his frenzied crawl away from the potentially hazardous drug cocktail pooling in front of him. The snap-hiss of the cut electrical wires from the walkway somewhere behind him let him know that backing up any further was ill-advised.

When Droog appeared before him, apparently completely unaffected by the chemicals’ fumes, John was alarmed to find that the troll was dancing up quite a jig. Or maybe that was just his head still trying to adjust to the potent combination of who-knew-what that he had inhaled.

The troll seemed to be able to tell that something was wrong with the hero, as he remained standing/dancing in one spot, a leer stretching his ugly face as he raised a finger up and tutted at John, the grunts coming from his throat sounding hideously painful. It took John a few long moments before he realized what the mobster was doing.

He was laughing.

Despite his currently ill state, the sense of indignation that flooded the teen’s body did much to focus his intentions, and along with that clarity came an idea. A risky idea, but one he was hard-pressed to discard out of hand.

As the raspy sounds of Droog’s laughter died to mere hisses, the troll stood up straighter, stretching his back with a soft pop. He cocked his arm back behind him and made a show of stretching it out. Even if he was incapable of speaking at the moment, the message he was sending was loud and clear: he thought he had this in the bag. When John didn’t react except to blearily blink up at him, the mobster took a step forward.

That was what the hero had been waiting for.

John threw his right hand out to the side, blindly focusing the wind behind him to latch onto the end of the downed power cable. His hand sliced through the air with purpose, the power cable mimicking his movements as it sped towards the rather surprised-looking troll.

The ties and rings still anchoring the cable to what was left of the walkway above them prevented him from reaching far enough to hit Droog with the cable, but then that was never his intention.

As John swung himself up off the floor and onto the lab bench, the still-live power cable splashed into the puddle of toxic chemicals.

The puddle which Droog had just stepped in.

Two things happened in an instant.

Droog’s form went as rigid as a statue as his muscles all simultaneously locked up on him as thousands of volts of electricity were sent coursing through his limbs, the troll’s veins standing out in extremely high detail against his skin. Secondly, the chemicals caught fire. That last one was completely unexpected and had John’s eyebrows shooting into his hairline in concern. That worked to Droog’s advantage, however, as the burning of the chemicals soon destroyed any path for the electricity to reach him, releasing him from its captivity.

The troll dropped to the ground like a ridiculously proportioned puppet with its strings cut, his body shaking with tremors as his muscles spasmed.

John had the presence of mind to float the cable off to the side and tie it in a knot so that it couldn’t cause any more problems before he rolled off of the bench and onto the floor. It took him several long, tense moments of gathering his willpower before he was able to push himself off the ground, his head now much clearer but still more than a bit fuzzy. By the time he was standing again, flames were licking up the side of the wooden table he’d crashed off of moments before, threatening to catch the whole thing ablaze. He had more important things to be worried about at the moment, however. Like whether or not he’d just killed Droog.

The teen took several shambling steps to reach the troll before he unceremoniously dropped to one knee, his gloved hand reaching out feel for a pulse at the troll’s neck. After searching in vain for a pulse for almost half a minute, panic rising from deep inside his gut, John cursed his stupidity and tore off his glove. With the barrier removed, his fingers found the troll’s pulse almost instantly, its beat strong and vivacious.

Too strong.

“Holy shit, there’s no way,” he groaned, as Droog’s eyes slowly opened. There was a lack of awareness in the mobster’s jade orbs, but he was sure that that was only temporary.

“No, no, no,” John spat, crawling on top of Droog’s chest. “You do not,” he started, raising his right fist up and bringing it down hard on the troll’s forehead. “Get,” another punch was delivered, this one with his left, “to do,” he sang, his voice rising in intensity as he brought his right fist down again, all semblance of the care he’d normally take to mask his regular speaking voice forgotten in his near-panic, “THAT!” he yelled, rearing back and winding up for a final, violent swinging of his fist.

It was to the designer of the drug’s credit that Droog’s skull didn’t split like a ripe melon under John’s relentless, superhuman barrage. As it was, the troll was very clearly out for the count and likely suffering from some type of brain contusion. John couldn’t find it in himself to really give a shit, at the moment.

Bringing his right hand to his face, John noted with no small amount of detachment that the bare knuckles of his exposed hand had cracked and split, leaving patches of bright crimson standing out against his pale skin. When his hand let out the barest of tremors, he gave the appendage a quick squeeze before sliding his glove back on, ignoring how his blood immediately seeped through the fabric to stand in stark contrast to his regular color scheme.

The teen sighed as he bonelessly stood from the defeated troll’s body, his legs struggling to find purchase against the ground as his muscles screamed their exhaustion and weariness began to set in, sagging down his shoulders as if he were Atlas trying to carry the weight of the world on his back. God damn was he ever glad that was over. He just hoped he wouldn’t need to help Hemogoblin in his own fight, because honestly he didn’t feel like he had much left in him. Thoughts of his partner galvanized the hero enough to bring his objectives back into focus. Just because he was tired didn’t mean he could rest, not when Hemogoblin might need him.

But first, he decided, he had to do something about the spreading flames that were just now starting to lick across the table’s surface, already threatening to jump to the surrounding tables and turn the whole place into an out of control conflagration. This all would be for naught if all of the evidence burned before it found its way to the police, after all. Especially the Red Miles.

Heaving another sigh, John set upon the arduous task of commanding the wind to suffocate every pocket of flame that he could find.

////

The first half dozen slashes were achieved in a blindingly fast flurry that lasted barely a second, the gangster’s movements with the curved blade almost obscenely quick. It was all Hemogoblin could do to avoid taking any serious damage as he leaned backwards at the waist to avoid a swipe at his carotid, his balance tipping over naturally and allowing him to get in a few kicks at the Midnight Crew boss’s chest as he somersaulted over. He earned several shallow gashes across the backs of his calves for the effort, while Slick earned a few new bruises.

Slick pressed his attack with a growl, swiping forward and forcing the troll to block with his arm, trading a gash to his left forearm for an open palm strike to the man’s solar plexus that sent him stumbling back. The fire that arose in Slick’s eyes at having been struck twice in a row momentarily halted the troll’s advance, the gaze promising certain retribution should the hero dare to strike him again.

Well, Hemogoblin wasn’t one to disappoint his fans.

They rejoined again in a whirl of blows, the teenaged troll throwing a right elbow inside the gangster’s guard, landing a hit on the man’s shoulder. He was too late in realizing that the opening had been purposeful as a straight blade seemingly materialized from nowhere in the human’s free hand, stabbing down immediately into Hemogoblin’s own left shoulder.

The troll pushed through the starburst of pain and took a swing at the man’s face with his left, the Crew boss dodging the swing deftly by moving his head to the side. He’d forgotten about the blade of blood attached to the side of the hero’s wrist, however.

The blade caught on his cheek and sliced upwards through Slick’s left eye, immediately causing the man to scream and peddle backwards in a flailing of elbows, his hands going up to cling at his face.

“You fucking _bitch_!” Slick screeched shrilly, his fingers digging into the skin of his cheeks as he continued to flail in pain, backing up until he hit the backs of his legs against his desk.

Hemogoblin ignored the pained howls as he grabbed the hilt of the knife embedded in his shoulder and gave it a strong pull, the knife taking with it an arc of blood that caught in midair and returned to the wound, sealing it instantly. Which did nothing to heal the deep, biting pain or the numbness in his fingers.

“I’m going to fucking slice you to ribbons, then I’m going to rip that windy asshole’s throat out, and then I’m going to burn this pissant city to the fucking ground!” the gangster railed, yanking his hands away to reveal what was left of his face. There was a long gash running from the middle of his left cheek all the way up until almost his hairline, thick, oozing blood rolling down his face in a macabre facsimile of teardrops. He was squeezing his eye shut tight, which Hemogoblin was thankful for. That was not an injury he wanted to stare at.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Hemogoblin chuffed, moving forward to finish off his wounded opponent. But the gangster wasn’t done yet.

The mafioso grabbed his karambit and lunged forward with a wild slash, his movements completely lacking his earlier finesse but more than making up for it with animalistic ferocity. The troll was caught unawares by the mad dash, the karambit biting deeply into the flesh of the left side of his chest and slicing all the way through to the opposite shoulder as Slick dragged the blade horizontally with sick glee, tearing sinew and veins as easy as cutting filet mignon.

Deeply wounded and lacking any other respite, Hemogoblin leapt backwards into a low crouch and raised his left hand to the wound and focused all of his energy on healing, his neon eyes flushing with a cold suffusion of pain as he stared at his opponent in mild shock. The laceration was deep and would require an extended amount of concentrated healing as the troll concluded that, had he been anyone else on the planet, that would have been a fatal blow and he’d be bleeding out on the floor. As it stood, it was taking everything he had to not wobble as he pushed himself to his feet, intent on at least meeting the enraged gangster head-on.

When Slick came at him again, there was a second knife in his free hand yet again, this one held in a firm stabbing position. Hemogoblin eyed it warily, though the bulk of his attention was still riveted on the karambit. That was not a weapon he wanted to feel for a second time.

His priorities shifting to disarming the man, Hemogoblin frowned. That was a task which would be much easier said than done; the karambit was a weapon specifically designed to resist disarmament, the ring on its end meant to be clutched tightly by whatever finger was nearest the grip. It would be easier to remove than a pair of brass knuckles, however.

Slick’s first stab with the straight knife was deftly evaded by a twist of the troll’s hips bringing his body out of the blade’s path. The follow up slash with the curved karambit was halted mid-swipe with a block against the mobster’s forearm. The hero went for the disarm then and there, his hand lashing out and twirling around the man’s hand and prying his hand open.

Slick had been watching the fight with Boxcars, however, and as soon as the blade had left his hand, he was bringing his other hand up to knock the weapon from Hemogoblin’s grasp. The troll was surprised by the move and thus was unable to prevent the blade from being returned to its owner, his wound slowing him down just enough so that Slick was able to catch him unawares.

Hemogoblin wasn’t going to let his efforts be stymied, though, as he took a step further into the human’s guard and enveloped his arm in a tight hold underneath his armpit, his free hand flashing forth and punching the man in the wrist and causing him to drop the karambit once again, this time letting it fall to the floor where it was promptly kicked by the troll to rest underneath the desk behind them.

Slick lashed out with the remaining blade in his hands in an attempt to skewer the troll’s shoulder from the side, forcing him to release the gangster and separate.

Hemogoblin smirked triumphantly as he looked at the man with a hint of gloating, his canines baring in an amused rictus. Now that Slick was back down to just one blade, the troll’s earlier plan could be executed with much less risk. Well, he amended, much less than the guaranteed stupidity the plan he was about to commit called for, at least. But there was little to be gained without sacrifice, so it was worth a shot.

“What’s say we end this, eh, buddy?” the troll queried, reaching up his right hand to touch the wound on his chest and gathering a bit of unseen blood into his palm.

Slick merely grunted in response, his eyes still glaring at his opponent with all the ferociousness of a wild beast. And then the man charged.

Seeing the events that were about to play out unfolding in his mind’s eye, the troll allowed himself to open up his normally impeccable guard just a bit, not enough so that it was obvious, but enough that someone as experienced as Slick would be remiss to not see.

The mobster took the bait, flashing forward in a stab that took the troll in the left side of his rib cage, the knife managing to slip between his ribs unopposed.

At the same time, Hemogoblin’s right hand lashed forward, the blood in his palm solidifying into a spike that penetrated deeply into the gangster’s arm just below his left shoulder, causing the man to cry out sharply in pain. He wasn’t the only one, though.

“Ow ow ow ow, you fuck!” the troll hissed, “I think you nicked my spleen! What is it with you and stabbing my abdomen?!”

“Fuck you,” Slick growled, his words spat through pain-gritted teeth with enough venom to kill a snake.

Hemogoblin didn’t allow him the opportunity to say anything more as he brought his elbow up and smashed the man in his forehead, sending him into unconsciousness immediately. The gangster dropped to the ground in a heap, the troll’s blade sliding from his shoulder with a wet schlock.

The hero flicked his hand sharply to rid it of Slick’s blood before he slowly began allowing it to be reabsorbed back into his skin from the base up, concentrating hard on straining his blood from any contaminants. He trusted in his body’s supranatural immuno defenses to protect him from any illnesses or diseases the man might have had swimming around in his bloodstream, but with a lowlife like Slick, you couldn’t be too careful.

It was only after the blade had been completely reabsorbed into his skin that Hemogoblin noticed that the puddle of blood surrounding Slick’s wound was only growing larger and larger as he watched, and he realized the man was in trouble. “I hit your brachial artery, didn’t I? Fucking perfect,” he sighed, drawing himself closer to the downed man. “Even when unconscious, you’re giving me shit. You better be thankful that the cops would appreciate you more alive than dead, because you seriously aren’t worth the effort of saving.”

As he knelt down, he was given a very painful reminder that Slick’s knife was still embedded in his abdomen. Deciding that it wasn’t hurting anything to leave it in for a few more moments and that the mobster’s life took precedence, the troll’s hands went down to the man’s belt buckle as he started undoing his pants.

“Don’t get too excited, Slick; this is strictly professional,” he muttered in amusement, yanking hard on the belt once it was undone and pulling it from around the man’s waist in one go. He then quickly set about tying the belt tightly in a makeshift tourniquet around the shoulder above which he’d stabbed, the blood seeping from the wound dropping sharply as soon as pressure was applied. “You’re incredibly lucky that I only nicked it and didn’t sever it, you know, because I’m no surgeon and there is no way in hell I’d put that much effort into stopping it, even if it meant you died.”

Seeing as how the mob leader was now in no immediate danger of exsanguinating, Hemogoblin looked down at his own wound and brought a hand to the hilt of the knife, gripping it with no small amount of trepidation. Steeling himself, he tugged sharply.

“Ow! Fuck, god _damnit_ ,” he moaned, pulling the blade out in one go. His body had acted automatically in his defense, sealing tightly around the wound to prevent deeper penetration and possible infection, but that hadn’t meant that the stab had hurt any less. And he hadn’t been kidding about his spleen, either.

Dropping the blade to the ground in a clatter, the troll sighed heavily, his abused nerves already singing in relief as he allowed his healing factor to do its thing. He then looked over at the Midnight Crew boss with weary eyes, the adrenaline withdrawal and the excitement of the night starting to take its toll on him.

“It no longer sounds like Heir and your butt-buddy lackey are trying to destroy the entire building, so if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to just lie here and try to focus on healing the damage you did. That okay with you, Slick?” Hemogoblin groused, rolling over and plopping his back on the floor next to the prone gangster, sending all of his conscious will to his injuries to make sure there were no complications.

Slick, of course, was far too unconscious to respond.

////

By the time John was finished with his impromptu firefighter duties, the exhaustion was really starting to be a problem. It took him almost five minutes to make sure Droog was properly restrained, all of the fires were out, and that nothing in the lab was in danger of spontaneously combusting and proving all of his effort to be for naught.

The sight that awaited him when he floated up to the hole from whence he and Droog had had their earlier falling out made his heart skip a beat and his blood run cold.

Slick appeared to have been defeated, as he was lying motionlessly on the ground in a large puddle of blood. That wasn’t what was causing surges of anxiety to shoot through his system, however. It was what was lying next to Slick which had his heart leaping into his throat. Or who, rather.

John didn’t move for several long, tense moments, thoughts flitting around his head about what it would mean if his partner was...was…

His mind wouldn’t let him finish that thought. It didn’t need to, though, because his body chose that moment to take over for him, as one moment he was floating outside of the hole in the ruined wall, and the next he was kneeling next to Hemogoblin, his hands on the troll’s shoulders as he examined every inch of him for injuries.

He didn’t get much of a chance, as the troll’s eyes shot open with startling speed and zeroed in on John’s with an intensity that once again paralyzed his lungs. The following “Heir…?” whispered in confusion took whatever air was left in those lungs and stole it, his entire body deflating as he sagged down against the troll’s body, a sob of relief escaping his mouth.

“Oh my god, Hemogoblin, don’t do that to me ever again. I thought for a moment that you were...that I’d have to...just. Just don’t do that again, please,” he huffed, breathing in the coppery scent of his partner.

He was a bit alarmed when he felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around his waist and pull him into a hug, which made it painfully obvious just how compromising a position he’d put himself in when he’d collapsed on top of the other hero. The warmth that radiated off of the troll’s body made him forget the awkwardness, however, and he savored the moment while it lasted.

It ended up lasting longer than John thought was probably ‘appropriate’ for just friends, but he definitely wasn’t complaining. He was just happy he wasn’t going to be leaving the strip club carrying his partner’s body.

“This is romantic and all,” the troll chimed in after pulling away a full minute later, his grin unable to hide his genuine affection and amusement, “but I am kind of hurt, and you are kind of heavy, Heir.”

John could tell that his face was probably completely scarlet by the way he felt his ears heating up, but he was still too relieved that his earlier fears had been unfounded to feel any true embarrassment, at least consciously. He’d take embarrassing himself in front of a guy he—kind of, sort of, definitely—was attracted to over having his partner be hurt—or worse—any day of the week.

The teen sat up slowly, offering the troll a hand as he pulled them both to their feet.

“You look like shit,” John exclaimed, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. It was true that the troll’s outfit was absolutely ruined, with holes and tears popping up all across his body, but the hero himself decidedly did not look like shit. He looked extremely attractive, as always, and the large swaths of grey skin behind the tears looked absolutely flawless, except for a small bit of discolored bruising along the gash on his chest and in the hole on his abdomen. He looked a great deal better than John felt, in any case.

Hemogoblin snorted, offering John a fond smile. “Thanks. You look like you lost a fight with a semi-truck, or something.”

“Or something,” John agreed. He took a moment to study the various cuts and rents in the troll’s outfit, his eyebrow raising with each new tear that he found. “Was Slick really that good? He was a middle-aged guy in a suit, and you’re…” he raised his hand, gesturing up and down at the troll’s body with an open palm. “You know. You’re you.”

John was offered another amused smirk and the shrugging of the troll’s shoulders. “Yeah, no, I was surprised, too. He was goddamn quick, like a hopbeast on crack. He moved like those blades were extensions of his hands. It was fun.”

It was John’s turn to snort. “Fun. Right.” He gave the troll another cursory examination, noting with interest how the bruises along the largest cuts and stab wounds were shrinking and changing color right before his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

Hemogoblin locked his hands above his head and stretched his arms, wincing a bit as the skin of his chest was pulled taut. John did his best to not flat-out stare at the various and sundry muscles made visible through the rips in his suit. “I’m fine, I promise. Or, rather, I’ll _be_ fine. That asshole really did a number on me. I’m good to move and do whatever now, but it’s going to take a long while before I’m back at a hundred percent. He managed to shred a not insignificant amount of muscles, and that shit stings like a motherfucker as it knits back.”

“That’s pretty awesome, though. I’d be in rehab for a month if I had those kinds of injuries,” John said with no small bit of awe. “It’s going to take me at least a week before I’m fully recovered as is.”

The troll laughed awkwardly, bringing a hand up to idly poke at the still discolored skin of his bared stomach. “You never would have had to worry about it if our situations were reversed. With your wind, Slick wouldn’t have even been able to get close, let alone hang on to any of his knives.”

John made a humming noise in the back of his throat. It didn’t really feel very couth to agree with a statement like that. “Maybe.”

“Speaking of, how’d you manage Droog? You two were making enough noise to put a demolitions crew to shame.”

John winced, his right arm rising to rub at his left collarbone. “In the end? Electrocution.”

The troll’s delicate eyebrows both shot upwards in surprise, his mouth opening in a decent imitation of a fish. He stared at John for a few silent moments as if trying to judge whether or not he was speaking the truth, and then gained a speculative look about his face. “Oh. That’s unexpected. Did you manage a snappy one-liner? Like 'I find you _guilty as charged_ ,' or 'Don't act so _revolting_ '? Because I'm going to be severely disappointed in your level of superhero professionalism if you didn't send him into unconsciousness with a pun."

John couldn’t help the guffaw that erupted forth from his throat, nor did he want to. It hurt his body to be wracked with the convulsions of his laughter, but it was a pleasant ache that he didn’t really mind too much.

For his part, Hemogoblin was grinning warmly, looking inordinately pleased with himself at having made his partner smile. He waited until John’s chuckles had subsided before he gestured towards the office door with his thumb. “So, not to detract from the mood, or anything, but I feel like we should go call the cops in already. There is an absolute shitload of drugs down there. Also, Slick’s not about to bleed out, but tourniquets aren’t exactly good for you. Not that I really care all that much either way. But, you know, hero morals and all that.”

John nodded, smile still stretching his face. “Right. How about you call the cops while I contact ATF, and we meet on top of the parking garage in five?”

The troll nodded, already pulling out a phone from his thigh pouch. “Got it. See you in five.”

John tried not to stare as his partner sauntered out of the room.

////

By the time that John hovered himself up to the top of the car park, there were already half a dozen Seattle PD patrol cars blocking off both the front and the back entrances of the club, doing their best to secure the scene. They were apparently still waiting on back-up before entering the premises, but that wouldn’t take long. He caught sight of his partner sitting on the concrete barrier of the roof’s edge, his long feet dangling over the side. Without a word, John joined him, making sure to sit as close to the troll as possible.

Neither of the two heroes said anything as they sat and observed, the six patrol cars soon being joined by dozens of others, along with several large SWAT vans and a whole cadre of ambulances. Once enough personnel had been gathered, they made their moves. It was all very dramatic-looking, except the two heroes were well aware that there were only unconscious bodies inside. Still, better safe than sorry.

The stretchers were called for almost immediately after the police breached the front door, the EMTs rushing into the club. They started coming out ten minutes later, unmoving Crew members handcuffed to the railings of the stretchers. John noted with no small amount of amusement that the creep who’d grabbed Hemogoblin’s ass was among those who were handcuffed, because wouldn’t that be a fun story to explain to the cops? They were quickly loaded into the ambulances and driven away, several police cars following along as escorts.

The pair waited in a comfortable silence for fifteen more minutes before Droog and Slick were wheeled out, at least three technicians hovering around Slick at all times. Bags of saline were being fed into the gangster’s body as they loaded him into the back of a waiting ambulance. John wasn’t sorry to see him go. Droog followed soon after, an oxygen mask attached to his face. His body had deflated to its normal proportions, his skin looking stretched and unhealthy. The doctors would have fun working out the myriad of complications they were sure to find, John was sure.

Seeing the two mobsters carted off filled the teen with an incredibly large amount of satisfaction, something like a sense of closure, and he couldn’t help the grin that split his face. It was true that there were still things to do, like have a little heart-to-heart with ATF and unload all that they had learned about Red Miles, but the police were clearly going to be busy for the next few hours, if not well into the next afternoon securing and documenting the scene to make sure they captured everything they needed to build their cases. The two heroes had more than an ample amount of time to just sit and take in the fruits of their efforts before bothering with the police scurrying below. Hemogoblin looked over, caught sight of his expression, and nudged John’s thigh playfully with his own.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Mm,” John sighed, leaning his head back to look up at the star-filled night, the brightly burning stellar furnaces of nuclear fusion somehow cutting through the ambient lights and pollution of the city to shine down on them. All things told, it was shaping up to be a fairly gorgeous night, a bit of an oddity for this time of the year. “I feel like I could take on anything right about now, even though my body is telling me it wants to sleep for a month straight.”

Hemogoblin followed his partner’s gaze towards the stars, his expression gaining a bit of distance as he pondered the sight. John wouldn’t have been ashamed to admit that at that moment, his eyes were far more drawn to the glowing hue of the troll’s orbs in his peripheral vision. They stayed like that for what felt like several minutes before the troll responded.

“It’s not over, you know. Not really. Slick was right when he said that we were only delaying things. The Midnight Crew is spread out all across the nation, and all we managed to do was take out a few of their leaders. They’ll probably be back, and that’s not saying anything about all of the low-ranking thugs that are still skulking about Seattle. There’s no way that the entirety of the Crew presence in this city was made up of the guys at the docks and at the strip club. No way.”

John said nothing as he pondered the troll’s words. He’d had similar thoughts upon hearing Slick’s proclamations, as well, but that didn’t mean anything, not really; they’d already showed that the two of them could stop the Midnight Crew once, after all.

Glancing down, the teen sought out Hemogoblin’s hand. Finding it resting on the concrete between them, John slowly reached his own hand out to cover the troll’s, his mind flashing back to a previous night when they’d held hands and John had been comforted. God, that felt like months ago. Hemogoblin reacted instantly, his hand turning over to embrace John’s as if this were the most natural thing in the world. In a way, it was.

“I’m not worried,” John began, marveling not for the first time how someone could be so _warm_ that he could feel their heat radiating through his glove. “We showed them what we were made of, tonight, and we kicked their asses. They’re going to have to think twice before they try something like that again, going to have to weigh the potential benefits versus the potential losses. And if they try again, we’ll make sure that they learn that it’s not worth it,” he grinned, the light of mischief dancing in his eyes.

Hemogoblin’s smile was almost wistful as he rested their hands on top of his thigh, his eyes never leaving where they were joined. “Yeah. Fuckin’ right, we will.”

John smiled and, as casually as could be, let his thumb brush over the troll’s in a back and forth gesture like the other hero had done for him in the warehouse. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to pull all of that off if I’d been working solo, though. Thank you for being there for me, Hemogoblin.”

If anything, the heat around his hand increased, and John almost started giggling as he wondered whether or not that was the troll’s version of a blush. It took another long minute of comfortable silence before he responded.

“My pleasure, Heir.”

Despite their aches and bruises, the pair stayed that way until the sun rose, their hands clasped firmly together, matching smiles of contentment and satisfaction etched on their faces.

////

**Part One: End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! That was a long one. And yes, I totally thought that they were going to kiss at the end, too. We hadn't planned on it, but literally halfway through us writing the thing, I started telling Kel that we might have to plan for a kiss sooner than we'd thought. It just seemed like the perfect moment. But then when it got time to write the actual scene, it just didn't feel right. We've always claimed to let the story speak for itself, and they were just too emotionally drained for a first smooch.  
> More importantly, this marks the end of the Midnight Crew Arc! Did you even know we had arcs? Because there are more planned. Lots more. The next arc is going to start from Karkat's POV, so that's something to definitely look forward to!
> 
> I would like to give a shout out to both Kel and the [realmenanime](https://www.realmenanime.tumblr.com) team, who helped Jove and us out a lot by laying down the flat colors on some of these panels. Couldn't have done it without [Raine](https://www.rainekitty.tumblr.com)'s, [Iris](https://www.knightofiris.tumblr.com)'s, and [Sal](https://www.czarinadoyle.tumblr.com)'s help. Thanks, guys! Be sure to check out their blog, as they're making an honest to god RMWT Animation, and it's amazing.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to our lovely Jove! Who, speaking of, has provided some absolutely hysterical yonkoma for your viewing pleasure below:
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
>   
> Head Writer: Bananaramses
> 
> Plotting/Editing: SergeantMeow
> 
> Illustrator: Jove-Bluh/Feshnie


	13. Intermission Two: In Which Hemogoblin Learns the Importance of Situational Awareness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI, LONG TIME NO SEE. HAVE AN INTERMISSION.

/ / /

**=== > Be Hemogoblin**

Your name is Hemogoblin, and you love the feeling of the cool night air whistling by your face as you traverse the tops of the buildings and apartments that make up your nighttime highway. Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, the breeze ruffling your hood and swaying your hair makes your blood sing with joy, the feeling of it pumping through your veins as reassuringly familiar to you as the sun must be to a plant.

While you’re sometimes ( _always_ ) envious of the ease with which Heir is able to travel around the city with his extremely convenient and not at all bullshit flying abilities, there’s still something to be said for navigating the rooftops by foot. There’s nothing quite like the adrenaline rush of hurtling yourself into the void between buildings with no reassurances of your survival except for faith in your own abilities and the idea that there will be a ledge or hold to grab when you land. It is, dare you say it, even more exciting than flying.

That doesn’t mean it can’t get monotonous, however. Tonight is a great case in point. You’d made plans to meet up with Heir in a place way outside of your normal patrol route, and that means you have at least half an hour of travel before you even enter the proper district, let alone find the proper building, and that’s if you’re lucky enough not to run into any delays. You honestly should have told Heir to meet somewhere closer to your route since it isn’t really a hassle for him to go out of his way, but you've been finding it incredibly difficult to object whenever he suggests something to you, doubly so when he’s suggesting to meet up. You’ve always harbored some small, irrational fear in the back of your mind that he might call things off if you disagreed, so you've made it a conscious choice not to. But that doesn’t really matter, as what’s an extra half an hour of running if you get to spend the rest of your night with Heir?

It would have been nice to have something to occupy your mind besides the run, however. When you get into the zone like this, sometimes you allow your instincts to take over and your mind to wander, usually to thoughts of your alluring partner. 

Which is where this night goes terribly wrong.

You're too busy thinking about Heir to pay attention to your surroundings—which is kind of the first and most fundamental rule of freerunning for a reason—and all of a sudden, one moment you’re dashing along stealthily, the black of your costume blending into the shadows, and the next moment you’re falling through what appears to be an open skylight directly into someone's apartment.

Your fall is broken moments later by a conveniently placed card table, which almost instantly buckles and folds under the presence of your obtrusive weight, the clattering of what sounds like board game pieces echoing in your ears like gunshots.

After getting over the immediate shock of falling and ending up somewhere you hadn't planned to be, you take a long moment to diagnose your condition as you lay sprawled on your back in what appears to be a kitchen, staring up through the open skylight at the few stars visible from smack dab in the middle of the city. You have the vague thought that it’s such a pretty night, the grumpy rainclouds from earlier in the day having apparently given way to something a little calmer, when you snap out of it and refocus. You are slightly dazed from the sudden shock of it all, apparently, but nothing seems to be broken except for your pride and the table, thankfully. But man does your ass hurt. It's a good thing you landed the way you did, or this could have been a much worse of an experience.

Your eyes dilate painfully as the lights are suddenly flipped on around you, your eyes watering instantly, and then out of nowhere a human female wielding a baseball bat and standing upside down fills your vision. She's staring at you with her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide as you lie on her kitchen floor on top of a ruined card table. Her ruined card table. You continue to stare for several long moments, painfully aware that you have no idea what to say, and even more painfully aware that every second that stretches on in silence is just going to compound the awkwardness and make this infinitely harder. The only thing you can think to compare the feeling to is the time your best friend almost walked in on you while you were enjoying a decidedly not-safe-for-work Heir fic. That had been awkward bordering on tragic, but you’d mumbled your way out of it and both of you had acted like it hadn’t happened. This situation is so much worse. 

As you tilt your head back, a vertebrae in your neck popping as you stretch it in an unusual position, you discover a much tinier human gripping the older one's nightgown, and he, too, is staring at you with wide, round eyes, his little mouth hanging open in what you think is something like shock and awe. At least, that’s what it looks like upside down.

"Urgh..." you manage ever-so-classily, as you flip around slowly and push yourself up to a sitting position. Neither of the inhabitants of the apartment say a word as you take your time getting up, your hands briefly patting your legs and side down in case of any missed injury. When you're once again standing at your full height and they still haven't said anything, the need to break the silence and relieve the overwhelming tension floods your thinkpan with an almost suffocating intensity.

"Sorry about the table," your mouth mumbles on autopilot, your eyes having a hard time meeting the woman's. "You, uh, shouldn't leave skylights open like that." You finish your half-apology with a lame shrug towards the ceiling with your shoulder, feeling moronic even as your body carries out the motion.

The woman, eyes still wide, nods slowly. "It...was a nice night out."

You don't know what to say to that, really, and oh my god this is so fucking awkward, so instead you let your gaze lower to the little one clinging to her leg. He looks to be about five or six, you'd guess, though you're really not that good at telling young humans apart. He manages a bashful peek at you from between the folds of the nightgown of the person whom you assume is his mother, and you raise your hand in a half-hearted attempt at a little wave. That just causes him to turn his head and bury his face further into her leg.

You take that as your sign to leave and so does the woman, apparently, because without prompting, she slowly walks to the door as best she can with her child clinging to her like that, unbolts it, and leaves it standing open for you. Nothing seems injured as you walk to the door, turn around, and open your mouth to say...something. Whatever you were going to say leaves you as soon as you open your mouth, of course, so you're left standing there with your mouth hanging open, looking like a total fucking moron. Snapping your jaw shut with an audible click, you inhale deeply, before raising your hand in a pathetic mockery of the officious wave you’ve seen Heir give to the police when making a report. "Have a good night, ma'am."

The door abruptly closes a half an inch from your nose, and you can feel the heat as your blood, unbidden, tries to rush to your face and warm your cheeks. You ruthlessly squash that down with an exertion of control and send your blood back to mind its own goddamn business, but that does nothing to get rid of the embarrassment you still feel.

That was literally the most embarrassing moment of your entire pathetic existence, and that is saying a lot. As you lean against the wall opposite the now-closed door and attempt to regulate the incessant beating of your heart against your ribcage, the only thought clear in your head is that you're extremely glad that Heir wasn't around to have witnessed that; that would have been just the worst.

As you take another deep breath to clear your head, you notice for the first time that heads are sticking out of doorways up and down the hallway, gawking at you like you're a particularly interesting zoo exhibit. You didn't think you'd made that much of a racket when you crash-landed on that table, but either you had been much louder than you thought, or else the walls around here were paper thin. Whatever the cause was, it didn’t matter, because regardless of the reason, you have at least ten pairs of eyes on you at the moment.

The blush that again tries to force its way upon your face tests your power to its limits when you notice that one of the residents has a cellphone out and is pointing it at you like they’re taking a picture or recording video—probably the latter. An almost overwhelming feeling of self-consciousness sweeps over you, then, and you fight the urge to readjust your costume and somehow make it cling less tightly to your curves.

Squashing those feelings behind the confident visage of your masked identity and straightening up, you try to appear as dignified as possible as you choose a direction at random and start walking down the hall, all of the heads and the camera turning as if on swivels as they mechanically follow your movements. You almost let out a stream of colorful curses when you round the corner and almost smack face-first into another apartment door. It takes you a second of confusion before you realize that you had chosen the wrong direction and that this was one of those idiotic floor plans that terminated in a dead end with no exit in sight, which you're petty sure is some kind of fire hazard. Chalking this up as just par for the course for your life, you turn on your heel and go back the way you came, your head held high even as you hear one of the residents—the one who’d been situated right at the corner and who had probably witnessed you almost faceplant into a door—lets out a snort of amusement. You completely avoid eye contact with anyone as you stalk down the hallway at a much quicker pace, eager to leave the scene and get to work scrubbing its memory from your thinkpan permanently. 

When you notice a sign on one of the doors ahead of you indicating a stairwell, you almost sob in relief, though you manage to keep it hidden behind your mask of indifference. Hemogoblin is calm and collected, after all, no matter what. Even when he makes a giant ass of himself and will probably be splashed all over YouTube the next day in the most embarrassing way possible, because seriously, fuck your life.

It takes you a good five minutes of crouching in the shadows of the building’s rooftop before you deem yourself to be sufficiently composed. You set off on your way after that, eager to meet up with Heir and put your latest fuck up behind you.

When you arrive at the designated building, Heir is already there, waiting for you. As you make your presence known, he smiles, his lips stretching underneath his tight mask, and you feel your heart stammer.

“Good evening, Hemogoblin,” he murmurs, the greeting making you feel warm and fuzzy though you mask it all under your persona’s confident smirk. It’s always like this, with Heir effortlessly putting you off balance and you doing everything you can just to stay rooted in the moment without blowing your cover and fanboying all over the place. Despite knowing him for almost a month, now, and despite having taken down a major criminal organization together, it still blows your mind that the two of you are not only close, but are actually partners. It’s one of the very few bright spots in your otherwise frankly terrible existence, and it’s taken you this long to reach a point where you don’t flail around like a wriggler on a sugar high as soon as you get home after your nightly patrols. It’s not your fault that your heroic idol had turned out to be everything he had been made out with you to be. 

...made out **TO** you to be.

“Ready for a night of _fun_?” you ask around a smirk, doing your best to inject as much emphasis into the innuendo as possible. As usual, Heir doesn’t seem to get the hint. When he just smiles innocently and voices his agreement, you roll your eyes and bend forward to do a few stretches to keep your muscles warm.

And that’s when the smile clearly visible behind Heir’s cloth mask morphs into a confused frown and his eyes furrow.

You catch the look out of the corner of your eye and you straighten back up, your own eyebrow cocked inquisitively. Just in case it’s something important, you reach out to your power and call your blood to the ready, a sliver hardening invisibly beneath your skin along your forearm, ready to lash out at any perceived threat in an instant. “What?”

The frown changes into something resembling...embarrassment?...as Heir raises his hand and attempts to articulate whatever it is that’s bothering him. “You’ve got a...a…” There goes his hand flailing helplessly. It would be really adorable and you’d probably be internally cooing at him if you weren’t so confused.

“A what?” you ask, the sliver of iron-like blood dissolving back into liquid with a careless loosening of your power.

Heir clears his throat as you watch a blush spreading from the bottom of his mask across the somewhat tan skin of his cheeks. Then, in a move that totally surprises you, he hesitantly reaches out a gloved hand and starts reaching for your...your butt?!

Your entire musculature system goes into lockdown as you go as still as a statue, and you actually feel your heart literally skip a beat, as cliché as that sounds, before it picks up with gusto and starts hammering in your ears. Time seems to slow down as you watch his gloved hand inch closer and closer, your eyes tracking it like it’s a deadly projectile. While this is happening, a thousand thoughts rush through your head with all of the subtlety of Niagara Falls. Is this it? Is this the night that Heir actually makes a move? Are you two going to officially become partner-boyfriends and then eventually matesprits? And then you’ll reveal your identities and move in together, and then down the line get human married?? This is a scenario you've run through your head a million times, and now that it seems to be coming true, every plan you'd ever come up with about how you'd respond is nowhere to be found, the noise of every other thought completely drowning out anything resembling a plan of action. Something vaguely buzzes in the back of your brain reminding you that the one creep at the MC club had already copped a feel, so this wasn’t exactly a new experience or anything, but that mental tick is thoroughly overpowered by the sound of your heart beating a sharp staccato.

Your heart, which is now pounding in your chest so rapidly that it’s almost shocking that Heir apparently can’t hear it.

As his hand finally reaches your ass, your already frozen muscles tense up even further, your brain fully expecting a grope, or a squeeze, or a you-don’t-know-what and _why-is-this-so-nerve-racking_ , but you feel nothing. Instead, Heir jerks his hand back quickly as if scalded by a hot stove, and you barely catch sight of something held firmly between two of his fingers. You squint your eyes to try and make out the object’s shape in the ambient light, though your eyes widen comically once you realize what it actually is.

It’s a puzzle piece. A goddamn motherfucking puzzle piece that was stuck in the cleft of your ass. As the blood once again rushes to your face, this time bypassing all attempts to stop it, you distantly wonder if Heir would let you fall to your death if you threw yourself over the building’s edge.

Fuck. Your. Life.

///

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor troll nerd child. Heir just literally pulled proof of his dorkiness out of his ass. That's gotta hurt.
> 
> Yes, I'm aware that updating took forever. I hope this was amusing enough to at least somewhat make up for it. I'd like to give an enormous shout out to [cherryirises](http://cherryirises.tumblr.com), our very talented guest artist for this chapter. We are incredibly happy with the work he did here, and I think you'll agree with me that his art added a wonderful flair to Hemo's intermission. Go visit his blog, because he's got a ton of RMWT fanart on there, and he is overall a wonderfully nice, kind guy. 10/10 would recommend. And since I'm plugging his blog, might as well plug [his NSFW Blog](http://cherrylicx.tumblr.com), too. 18+ only, obviously.
> 
> A reminder, an Intermission chapter is one which departs from our regular format, involves a different writer (usually me, Sgt.), and has a guest artist. We'll be resuming our regular long-ass chapters and format with Jove helming the art for the next chapter. As always, check us out on [our blog](http://realmenweartights.com) for fanart, fanfics, updates, and more.
> 
> Writer: Sgt. Meow  
> Artist: Cherryirises


End file.
